Rapid Eye Movement
by Dana Norram
Summary: Dreams were overrated. / SLASH / EamesxArthur / COMPLETE
1. It started easy

**Title:** Rapid Eye Movement  
**Rating:** R/NC-17  
**Pairing/character(s):** Eames/Arthur, Cobb, Ariadne. Saito and Yusuf are there too.  
**Word count:** ~28k (overall)  
**Disclaimer:** Nolan built this world. I just filled it with my (porny) subconscious.  
**Summary: **Dreams were overrated.  
**Spoilers:** _Seriously_?  
(Overall) **warnings:** Smut, language, angst, mention of violence, bodily secretions, dirty talking and (sort of) voyeurism.  
**Thanks to: **ilovetakahana (_ilovetakahana. livejournal. com_), laria_gwyn (_laria_gwyn. livejournal. com_) and brilligspoons (_brilligspoons. livejournal. com_) for their invaluable assistance. Remaining mistakes are mine.

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**Rapid Eye Movement**  
by Dana Norram

**It started easy.**

Eames was just a guy Cobb's guy knew and he had been in the business long enough to be familiar with Cobb's reputation as an architect and extractor. Eames knew that Cobb used to be one of the good guys, accepting strictly legal jobs only, but he also knew that lately Cobb had been raising his game. It wasn't really surprising. In this job, sooner or later they all fell off the edge, somehow.

The good news was that kind of change usually meant new money and new scenarios for Eames to crack. So when he was asked for a demonstration, Eames made sure Cobb won't leave disappointed.

They took a plane to Saint Petersburg on that same evening.

As Cobb briefed him on the mark, Eames wondered who the rest of Cobb's team would be. He asked, like it was nothing, and he wasn't surprised when Cobb told him he worked only with this other fellow. An extracting team usually worked just fine as a trio, after all.

What did surprise Eames was Cobb frowning as an afterthought, then trying to warn him about that other fellow. Eames observed as Cobb opened his mouth, struggling with the words.

"He's just... nothing like you." Cobb would summarize a few minutes later.

And Eames couldn't figure out whether he should be flattered or insulted.

Cobb shouldn't have taken the trouble, though. Eames, who always had considered himself a friendly guy, knew on the spot that it would take a lot more than a smile and a handshake to be worthy of that Arthur boy's trust. And Eames knew he needed his trust if they were planning to work together.

Their first job wasn't supposed to be anything extraordinary, but the truth was Arthur gave Eames the hardest time of his career.

Like most point men, Arthur was driven by some pathological need to know _everything_. He articulated questions that Eames couldn't put a finger how could they possibly matter. Arthur observed Eames impersonating someone like he was studying a mildly interesting biology class, making quick notes in a little notebook he carried everywhere he went. Arthur didn't hesitate to criticize him, or Cobb, for that matter.

At the end of the fourth day, he cleared his throat and suggested Eames' performance as a junkie who would interact with the mark was, maybe, just a _little_ bit over the top? The very next morning, Arthur handed Eames some data, interviews and statistics, so he could prove his point.

Eames was impressed. And annoyed as hell.

Arthur, good at his job like he was, of course, noticed this.

That was the first time Eames ever saw him smile.

It took him three whole days to see Arthur smile again. Arthur had finally cracked a file he'd been working on for weeks, and it turned out that the mark, an ex-dancer who had had a two-year affair with a Moscow mob boss, had a previous boyfriend with dream-sharing training, which gave them the very dangerous probability of having to deal with a militarized subconscious.

And they only had about two hours before the window to pick up the woman, who was having her appendix removed. Eames noticed as Arthur's face went white for a few seconds, because Eames knew that Arthur knew they hadn't prepared themselves for that.

"Eames has military training," Cobb shrugged, talking to nobody in particular. Arthur, however, gave him a meaningful nod in return, his face turning directly to the model of Cobb's labyrinth, plan B probably already starting to grow inside his head.

Then Eames realized his abilities as a forger obviously weren't the only reason Cobb had hired him. Thinking about that, it did make a lot of sense to imagine Arthur digging into his life, like Eames was a proper target, before he could bring himself to agree with Cobb's choice for a new teammate. Again, Eames didn't know if he should feel insulted or flattered. Not that he wasn't a little bit curious about what else Arthur might have found in his research.

They ended up changing their approach, but not by much. Eames introduced himself as a young junkie who needed the mark's help and once her subconscious attacked them, Eames pretended to be on her side. As Arthur fought the projections, which were armed mostly with butcher knives, Eames helped Cobb extract her secret: the location where the mob boss had buried the body of their employer's son. When Eames woke up in a hospital's private room, still hooked to the PASIV, Arthur's face turned to him and he realized Arthur was smiling, though not exactly at Eames. It was more like Arthur just couldn't believe it had really worked. But it had.

It was early evening, and they had just returned the unconscious mark safely back to her room when Cobb gave Eames his share and thanked him for his help before disappearing, all in a matter of seconds.

"He does that," Arthur offered as the door closed on Cobb.

And Eames thought that that was the first nice thing Arthur had said to him. He shook his head and watched in silence as Arthur gathered his belongings. All things considered, it had been a damn good job. Apart from the cash, which was considerably more than he was used to getting paid for his services, Eames thought working with Cobb and Arthur was intriguing, to say the least.

Cobb was brilliant; the way he built the dreamscape, how he put Eames' skills to work with a flawless, beautiful extraction. And, there was Arthur. Well, Eames didn't have any doubts Arthur was the best point man he had ever worked with.

Truth be told, he had never given that particular position any thought before. Most point men Eames had known over the years were just a bunch of sociopath schizophrenics, always hidden behind a computer or a notebook, taking their precious little notes so they could write down a thirty-page report. Arthur was different. Special, Eames could risk saying. Because even if Arthur _did _need to know everything, Arthur would share only what Arthur thought was worth sharing.

Eventually, Eames would learn that this also could be an elaborate mousetrap. But he didn't know it, not back then. Not as Arthur glanced up at him a few minutes after Cobb was gone. As he asked Eames if Eames was planning to leave or to stay in the city for the night. And Eames didn't know whether Arthur was just making polite small talk or if he was really expecting for an answer.

Eames was a forger, yes. Reading people was what he did for a living. He observed people and gave them whomever the team needed him to be. But Eames knew he couldn't figure Arthur out. Not well enough, not yet. So Eames did something else he also was pretty good at. He smirked, cocking his head. Then, Eames gambled.

"What, your little research didn't show my lovely wife and the two children, a smart-mouthed boy and a little girl with ponytails, waiting for me to come home?"

Arthur snorted. "I never looked anywhere outside of your résumé, Mr. Eames." He shrugged, finishing packing up graphs and charts. "Not that I had to, to be certain that you're going to spend to the last penny everything you've earned here on a poker table, strong liquor, and with people charging by the hour."

Eames noticed there was something about the very way Arthur talked. Not only as if Arthur _had _to be right, but as if he needed everybody else to know it, too. Definitely annoying, Eames concluded. And a little bit charming, maybe, he mentally added.

"You're pretty full of yourself, are you not?" Eames noted, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, leaning against the wall.

Arthur was giving the PASIV inside the case a final check-up, his back turned to him. Eames observed as Arthur's shoulders tensed up for a second or two, before he relaxed them completely. Arthur let his words out like he had planned each letter, syllable, stop and comma.

"You never look people in the eye when you're awake, only when you're under. You keep running a poker chip around your fingers when you're trying to think. The poker chip is obviously a totem. You don't seem to realize when you're doing that or you just don't care if people notice it. Either way, it makes me think you must have had an emotional breakdown and you discovered yourself very close to losing track of reality, once. Something happened to you and you won't let that happen again. Being a forger is harder than being just a thief, but it's also _safer_."

During Arthur's speech Eames had kept a hand on his chin. As it ended, Eames gestured briefly, shaking his head. "Impressive. For a point man, I mean."

Arthur turned his body to face Eames. It was odd, but Eames thought that Arthur looked more pleasant than smug. Arthur parted his lips like he wanted to say something else, but Eames wasn't done yet.

"It's indeed impressive, my dear Arthur, that you're still able to do your job, since you're obviously so busy paying attention to me." And Eames thought he might have overplayed his hand when Arthur crossed his arms over his chest. Arthur's face, however, still seemed pleasant. He narrowed his eyes slightly at Eames.

"And somehow I'm the one full of myself."

Eames fought back a laugh. Arthur _was_ good. In a different situation, Eames would be torn between punching Arthur and asking him out. Since he wasn't doing either, given the real possibility of Arthur kicking his arse, Eames chose to wave a white flag. Because he didn't have to crack into Arthur's past to know the man had military training as well and not a single problem in beating people up while awake. And though Eames knew he probably could take Arthur in a fistfight, the perspective wasn't really how he'd like to spend his first free night in days.

"I apologize." And of course Arthur scowled at that, looking incredulous. "Why don't I buy you a drink as a peace offering?"

And Eames asked like it was nothing, because the truth was he never thought Arthur would say yes. Even if it was Arthur who had suggested 'plans for the night' in the first place. Suggesting was one thing, expecting an answer, another. And a straight-up question like Eames' was a completely different matter. Saying _yes _to that kind of question could end impossibly badly and Eames knew Arthur must have reached the same conclusion before saying yes. So, that meant Arthur didn't care about the outcomes and it made Eames painfully curious. And Eames was old enough to know that curiosity hardly played nice.

Eames would wonder, later, whether or not he would've invited Arthur out if somehow he could have foreseen the outcome.

_Maybe not_, he would think one day, wishing it was true and feeling alone. And bitter.

They went to a small hotel bar, just a couple of blocks away from the mark's hospital. Arthur suggested the spot as they climbed down the maintenance stairs, and Eames accepted it without a word, because the truth was he really didn't have anywhere else to be. After he had checked out of his own hotel early that morning, Eames had had just a couple of things in mind: finish the job, have a few drinks, and gamble a bit before catching a plane for someplace warmer. Jamaica, maybe.

Right then, Eames felt okay just watching Arthur drink a beer. He never would have picked Arthur for a beer drinker, but he was starting to reconsider it. Because, yes, Arthur talked like vodka, clean and deep and burning everything his words touched; and it was also true Arthur behaved like red wine, nice and polite, still fooling anyone who would be stupid enough to drink too much of it. But, yes, Arthur did smile exactly like beer, like something surprisingly easy and refreshing, once you got used to its taste.

They didn't talk, much. Arthur seemed satisfied with his earlier conclusions and didn't ask him about anything else. Eames was okay with that as well. Because although Arthur had hit pretty close to home, Arthur didn't have to know that. Eames couldn't see how that could turn into anything but trouble; they had spent a whole week deep inside each other's heads, yes, but that was completely different.

Up above, if you screwed things up, you wouldn't just wake up and get to do it all over again. And you did not mess around with people you worked with, especially not in this line of business. It was very bad for your sanity, hideously bad for your wallet – and Eames was absolutely fond of both of them. He'd lived long enough to see his share of ruined jobs over somebody else's instability and given the kind of money usually involved in operations such these, well. You could say those people's instability could end up being the _least _of their problems.

So, as long things were kept that way, all neutral, friendly and light, you wouldn't end up caring, and both of you would be able to get the job done. Because there was no room for personal rubbish when you worked in something so unstable as someone else's dreams, already filled up with their own set of alien feelings, pained regrets, and suffocated guilt.

But the truth was Eames knew you didn't need to know a person to care about them. You didn't have to ask about their favorite color, the middle name of their high school sweetheart. You didn't need a reason to want to understand all their hopes and dreams. Even if dreams were overrated. Even if they could be dissected, manipulated, built piece by piece, forged, broken, and finally torn apart. A vivid nightmare once you woke up to find out that your most guarded secret had been stolen.

Arthur didn't sound like he had any secrets worth stealing, though. Arthur talked about his time in the army like it was something he thought of as obvious and unimportant. About how he met Cobb when he was recruited to design a dream, and how Cobb taught Arthur how they could do a lot more than shoot, strangle and stab each other, and finally how Cobb called Arthur to work with him after Arthur was discharged, a few years later.

And yes, Eames thought, he had already figured out that much just from watching Arthur closely. The way he moved, asleep or awake, how he dressed and talked, stabbed, strangled and shot. Everything preplanned and executed like Arthur didn't have any choice but to be strictly right. How Arthur criticized Cobb as they worked, but obviously still trusted him with his life. It was a partnership only time could build, and Eames imagined how nice it would be to have Arthur trust him like that, one day.

Arthur never mentioned what caused him and Cobb to cross over into illegal activity, and Eames didn't ask. He didn't have to. He already knew Cobb was wanted in America, accused of murdering his own wife. Eames had done his research as well. Yet he couldn't figure out if it was true or not. Though Cobb didn't strike him as the murdering type, Eames thought Cobb did look guilty, sometimes.

But Eames had dealt with worse. In his experience, this sort of thing just came with the job. And Eames' way to deal with that was by not interfering. As long as Cobb's past didn't mess with the job, it wasn't Eames' business. All of them had their own skeletons and it wasn't his place to ask, or to judge. And if Eames so much as smelled trouble, well, he could always leave. No loyalties, no guilt.

Still, Eames was finding it really disturbing that he somehow envied Arthur's blind trust in Cobb. Loyalty had its perks, apparently.

At some point they ended up talking about the job and Arthur even praised Eames' performance, observing how his own suggestions had worked well with the mark, in the end. Eames laughed at that, sipping his glass of whisky. He knew that was exactly the sort of compliment he should expect from someone like Arthur. Never giving, not really, never enough.

Arthur, Eames realized, was probably the most insecure person he had ever met. It was sad and fascinating at the same time; sad, because it wasn't an easy path, and fascinating because in this one way, they were the same. Arthur knew what he wanted and he planned everything out, no matter how deeply he had to bury his own self to get there. Eames always knew what he wanted, too. And Eames always did what he wanted, when he wanted to do. The only difference was he didn't have any idea of what it was like to need to control everything around him. Having to plan every single step of his way, like shortcuts couldn't happen, _ever_.

While Arthur hated being wrong, Eames already knew he couldn't always be right. Those were both legitimate ways to dealt with information, Eames supposed. Arthur was a point man because it was how he manufactured information. Eames was a forger for the exact same reason. But while Arthur managed to turn information into data, Eames built emotions. He wasn't a forger because he loved to mess with people's heads, to turn their inner fears and desires against them. Though that gave him power, it was not about the power. Eames was a forger because even when he found himself behind someone else's face, he still got to feel, to want, to be amazed, to be someone. It was not just about the looks, the gestures, the subtle tone of voice. A very creative subconscious could come up with all that. Eames knew he was something more than a pretty piece on the dreamscape. As a forger, he was able to play a bigger part. He got to choose and to learn from his mistakes. To be surprised when he found himself happy for being wrong.

"Oh, thank you, Arthur," Eames toasted him with a smirk. "Though it was your indispensable research which kept our arses safe down there, right?"

Arthur's reaction was, somehow, unexpected. Eames thought Arthur would be the type who always would choose to take a compliment like it was nothing but the undeniable truth, something he just didn't have to recognize. Yet it took half a second before Arthur composed himself, that one single look forced Eames to understand something he had failed to notice until then.

Different ways to deal with information, yes. But different ways to deal with meaning, too.

He realized that Arthur worshiped his job as much as Eames enjoyed his, that his job _defined _who Arthur was. Because having every small, insignificant detail of those people's lives under his fingertips truly, deeply mattered. To Arthur, everything happening according to plan was only the most important matter in the world. The job going well _meant he _did well, and it wasn't a matter of pride or just control. Maybe not even about power or money. And the truth was that Eames' teasing made Arthur feel small and insignificant.

And he thought about taking that back, but decided against it. Eames knew he could make it worse. So, he took another quick sip of his glass to prevent himself from saying anything else, and as Arthur had already changed the topic, Eames went with it.

An ordinary person could be easily fooled by Arthur's cool tone of voice. Eames was not an ordinary person, though. Because Arthur could try to deduce all he wanted and then convince himself he _knew_ things, but as long as he wasn't able to confirm them, black on white, he was just guessing, out of his league, playing the amateur. And when things reached that unstable little gray area, Eames was anything but an amateur. Noticing people's subtle tones was what he was good at and he had learned most of Arthur's in the past week. That wasn't even something Eames consciously did; it was more like a habit he just couldn't help. He still couldn't read Arthur like he was an open book, filled with data to be analyzed but Eames could guess and his guesses were usually accurate. And he guessed he sympathized with Arthur's need to be in control of his own emotions as Eames needed to be in charge of his marks'.

They avoided every topic that involved dream-sharing and ended up talking about boring of stuff: sports, politics. Not that Eames was bothered. In fact, he enjoyed observing how people expressed themselves in the ordinary things. The mundane subjects had given Eames some of his best insights. He smiled, peaceful, as he ordered another shot of whisky for himself and a third beer for Arthur with a wave of his hand. He even faked a face when Arthur refused to say 'football' over 'soccer'. But Eames was barely able to hold back a laugh as Arthur, seeming to run out of topics, started in on the weather.

"Good god," Eames blurted out, instead. "Now I feel like I'm at home."

And Arthur must have realized how stupid he had just sounded, because he choked immediately, spitting beer over the counter. Eames was quickly on his feet to pat Arthur on the back. Arthur was all flushed, coughing, his lips wet. He shrugged Eames' hand off, but murmured something vaguely grateful when Eames took a green handkerchief out of his pocket shirt and handed it to him.

That was when the storm began.

It took Eames one single look before he swore under his breath. That wasn't a regular storm; it was like the whole damn sky had started falling apart. If it didn't break soon it would be impossible for him to find a cab, let alone catch a flight. Goodbye, Jamaica.

They sat in silence and watched the rain lashing against the bar's large window, to the people on the streets putting up umbrellas and running to cover themselves up. Eames saw Arthur smiling, like he was relieved that he had everything under control and those people didn't. Eames shook his head again. He had to leave, soon, because that smile definitely shouldn't look so disturbingly charming.

"Talking about the bloody weather," Eames stated, letting out a heavy sigh because the silence wasn't doing him any good.

"I have a room. Upstairs," Arthur declared, his voice cool as ever, eyes locked on the rain, Eames' green handkerchief gripped hard in his hand. "With a bed," he added out of necessity, tilting his head a bit so Eames could see his face.

Arthur's lips were still wet, and Eames felt understanding hit him like a jolting kick. From the corner of his eyes, Eames perceived a lighting bolt forking the sky, very soon followed with the massive sound of thunder. The storm was right above them, and Arthur didn't flinch, didn't look away, he just sat there and waited. Eames felt his throat and mouth dry out and he thought _what__ the bloody hell_.

"I bet you do," Eames replied carefully, because what else he could possibly say?

Arthur turned his face back to the rain and fell into total silence for what felt like an endless, dreamy minute. Eames felt like Arthur was busy weighing each one of his next words, whether it was worth it or not to vocalize them. Arthur was planning, analyzing, and measuring the risks, because Eames knew Arthur also couldn't help it. Eames waited, then, noticing the visible part of Arthur's neck blushing a deep red and he was surprised for his suddenly aching chest. Because, yes, that was sad.

And fascinating, too.

When Arthur finally decided to speak, Eames noticed there was an almost imperceptible note of anxiety in his voice.

"Is that a _yes_?" Arthur said, and Eames thought about how he must know that up here, in the real world, things rarely went according to plan. He didn't know what to answer, because Eames had no idea what yes, or even no, could mean. He could guess, of course, always, but that was it. It could be fun, could be the best way to finish what so far had been a hard, though pleasant and lucrative week. It also could be the biggest mistake of his life and Eames had had his great share of mistakes, thank you very much. He didn't know if could learn anything from this one, though. So yes, Eames could try to guess what Arthur meant, but he only knew one thing for sure.

Eames knew he always knew what he wanted, and at that precise moment, what Eames did want was to have a chance to _know_ Arthur. To know him well enough so he could ask his favorite color, and maybe the middle name of his high school sweetheart. Eames wanted to learn all about Arthur's hopes and dreams. To get Arthur to trust him as he trusted Cobb.

Eames wanted time, he wanted a chance. A chance to understand how he had ended up there, with the sky falling over his head, a half-glass of whisky pressed against his hand and a stranger at his side, the most insecure person he had ever met, someone who both made his chest ache and fascinated him at the same time.

And Eames also knew he couldn't get what he wanted, not this time, because the few days he had spent with Arthur had already taught him that _nobody _could ever get that man to do anything he didn't plan to do. Though Arthur couldn't have planned the storm, he certainly had planned all the things he had said. What he had just asked for. If Eames chose to turn Arthur down now, though, he knew he wouldn't ever get that chance back.

So, Eames made a choice. He emptied his glass and smiled sideways. He put a hand on the small of Arthur's back and whispered close to his ear.

"Lead the way, darling."

Eames glimpsed the twist at the corner of Arthur's lips, but neither of them said anything else. They reached the sixth floor and Arthur was on his knees as soon as the door closed behind them. Arthur opened Eames' trousers and grasped his cock, sucking Eames until he was impossibly hard. Then, all red cheeks and messy hair courtesy of Eames' fingers, Arthur stood up and stepped back. He started to take his clothes off, suit jacket, tie, trousers, all loosened and dropped aside in quick, precise little movements.

He stared as Arthur lay on the bed, wearing only a white dress shirt and a pair of deep blue boxer shorts, his brown eyes looking pleased at Eames, busy trying to catch his breath. Arthur stroked himself through the fabric of his underwear as Eames walked closer, every muscle of his body aching to fuck him. Eames wasn't surprised to discover that Arthur was prepared, that he was expecting this, as Arthur reached for the nightstand, shoving condoms and lube into Eames' hands.

Eames tore off Arthur's boxers and lifted one of his legs, sticking two lubed fingers inside him, fucking Arthur with them. He watched, amazed, as Arthur closed his eyes and arched his body, never stopping to stroked himself, biting down on his lower lip. Eames increased the pressure of his fingers, pulling them out and shoving them back in a few times before he could add one more.

Arthur bled his lip a bit and Eames forced himself to resist the urge to lower his head and lick the blood off. Instead, he kept fucking Arthur with his fingers, four of them now, curled, twisted, buried deep inside him, in and out until Arthur couldn't take it anymore and came with a small cry, muffled against his gritted teeth.

Eames smirked as Arthur gazed at him, his breath settling. Then, looking down at Eames' fingers still buried inside him, Arthur smiled the dirtiest smile Eames had ever seen on a person. He felt Arthur's muscles clenching around his fingers, and Eames knew he had had enough. Eames' cock ached as he took the fingers out so he could unroll a condom on himself, his heart pounding hard and painfully fast against his chest.

Eames looked down at Arthur's body, the white shirt rumpled in all the wrong ways, and took a long, deep breath. But before he could say or do anything else, Arthur already had spread his legs further apart, making room for Eames. And this time Arthur moaned, softly, as Eames' cock disappeared inch by inch inside him.

Arthur's hand wrapped around his cock, pumping it fast and making it hard again. Eames began to pull almost all of his length out, before pushing back in. He observed as Arthur's head sank into the mattress, his hair and face the most perfect mess, and Eames fucked Arthur hard, pressing him down, shifting his body until he could find the right angle, shoving himself against Arthur's hips. Between the thrusts, Eames thought he heard something like his name, but once he stared down at Arthur's face, he knew it didn't matter, because he was so, _so_ close.

Eames took Arthur's cock and hand between his fingers, setting a rhythm combined with the thrusts of his hips. They came almost at the same time. Eames hard, blinded, breathless inside Arthur, his fingers instantly squeezing Arthur's cock and hand, making him gasp and come. He felt Arthur's free hand plunging five short fingernails into his shoulder.

He fell over Arthur's chest, still pulsing inside him, his face perfectly placed against Arthur's warm neck. Eames kissed the sweat off his skin and without thinking about it, because no one could ever blame him for not thinking straight, then, Eames lifted his head so he could look into Arthur's eyes.

They were wide open, watching him with an unreadable expression, maybe a shadow of a smile upon his face. That was enough for Eames, who put a hand on Arthur's chest, closer to his collarbone, feeling the heartbeat beneath his fingers. Eames lowered his head, aiming for Arthur's bruised, swollen lips; he had never wanted to kiss someone so badly before.

But Eames' mouth brushed against the warm, soft skin of Arthur's cheek as him shifted his body under Eames', his heartbeat no longer beneath Eames' fingertips. Eames felt an icy cold piercing his spine, but he put himself together quickly, taking Arthur's earlobe between his teeth and biting hard, before sucking it softly. Arthur let out a strangled cry in surprise, but he didn't try to shove Eames away. They laid in silence for a while, Eames' breathing warm in Arthur' hair, until he disentangled himself from Arthur, making his way into the bathroom.

Eames was back a few minutes later, the condom properly disposed of and his face and hands washed with cold water. Eames found Arthur already asleep, little noises muffled against a pillow, a sheet poorly covering his lower body. Then, Eames noticed two things, and he couldn't decide which one surprised him the most: the fact that Arthur allowed himself to sleep like that, all messy and sticky, or that Arthur had left enough room for Eames to join him in bed, if Eames wanted.

And he _did _want.

But after Eames had collected all his clothes from the floor, what he chose do was dress himself. He cast a look at the man in the bed, an uncertain, lingering look, before walking away.

**(End of Part I)**

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Notes:** This is longer than everything I'd previously wrote in English put _together_. It's also the second longest fic I've wrote (and, huh, was able to finish?) like, _ever_. Usually I'm an one-shot, ficlet kinda girl, but _Darling_ & _Mr. Eames_ here seem to have this sort of effect on people.  
This was originally posted at my Live Journal (_dana-norram. livejournal. com/ 43260. html_) and, since English isn't my native language, any constructive criticism is very welcome. Hope you guys enjoy! ;*


	2. It ended messy

**It ended messy.**

Eames could even say that it was Cobb who put an end to it. Sort of.

They were working on a particularly important case, and Cobb had come in the night before they were supposed to strike in order to give everything a final check. But what he found inside the apartment they'd rented for headquarters was Arthur pinning Eames down with his legs and body, throwing punch after punch at him.

And when Cobb shouted _what the __hell_ – they broke apart, breathing hard and not looking at each other. They didn't have to. Eames knew Arthur had a deep cut in his lower lip and a nasty black eye, as he could feel his own face swollen and tasted the blood all over his teeth.

Eames didn't wait for Cobb to say anything to them, to ask for an explanation, an apology. And Eames didn't want to hear Arthur say _anything _else. So he left. He left his things and his jacket and walked out the doors without looking back. He didn't know what Arthur would say to Cobb, and he couldn't have cared less.

At least, that's what Eames repeated to himself for a few blocks before he realized he was freezing his arse off out there. So, he swore. He cursed Arthur. Because Arthur wouldn't go out without his goddamn coat. Because Arthur wouldn't pin Eames down, not unless he intended to fuck his brains out. Arthur wouldn't smash Eames' face with his bare hands if Eames hadn't thrown the first punch. Eames regretted that, now, of course. He had never meant to hurt Arthur in any way.

Yet he had. And the fact that Eames was hurt back _every_ single time didn't make him feel any better. After all, it had been his choice. He chose to know Arthur. He chose to come back and ask Arthur the most boring questions he could think of. Eames chose to smile instead of just smirking at him. He chose to care before he even knew Arthur well enough for it. Eames liked people in general, but Arthur, well. Eames knew Arthur was special. In some cliché, heartbroken meaning of special.

He had thought Arthur was special after working with him for the first time, but Eames only knew Arthur was somehow special _for _him exactly three weeks after that rainy night in Russia, the night they fucked in Arthur's hotel room. Because Eames had done all that before; he went to bed with people he barely knew and fucked them, let them fuck him, and Eames was always perfectly capable of walking away without second thoughts haunting him. He had guessed things could be a little bit different with Arthur from the beginning, though. Because he didn't want to just fuck Arthur to the point where neither of them could think or see straight. But since that was what Arthur wanted, that was what they had done.

And Eames thought about how he must have had misread the signs as Arthur turned his body just in time, right before Eames tried to kiss him. He thought that must had been just what it had looked like: a meaningless good time. And Eames was afraid he wouldn't be able to deal with that in the morning after, with Arthur glancing down at him and asking Eames to forget about the whole thing. So Eames chose to deal with it in his own way.

He tried very hard to not to think about Arthur in the following weeks. Eames bought an airline ticket to Jamaica, lay on the beach and he leered, numbed by the heat and the sea breeze, as waves destroyed little sand castles. He met and slept with a gorgeous waitress for a couple of nights, enamored by the tone of her dark skin. But when they kissed, her lips pressing hard against his, Eames couldn't help but wonder how Arthur's would taste like. That made him a little bit worried, but he was able to shut out the thought, at least for the moment.

What made Eames bloody worried was being assaulted by the most ridiculous idea: Arthur, _there_, with him. Arthur bitching about the heat and telling Eames useless statistics data about sea creatures and global warming as they walked along the sidewalk. Somehow, Eames knew he would find that annoying, yet ridiculously charming. He already knew Arthur was special, and he was damn sure of it the morning Cobb called and Eames found himself on a plane in a matter of one hour and twenty-four minutes.

Eames knew because, when he fell asleep after a strong cocktail, he discovered himself being able to dream again. Dreaming just like he used to do. The kind of dream with shadowy figures in impossible shapes, played for all of our lost memories. Places and pictures filled with no sense but all meaning. Eames found himself dreaming, _actually_ dreaming of the taste of Arthur's lips, feeling the warmth of the bed he chose to walk away from. And as he woke up, no kick, no musical countdown, the plane ready to land, Eames took out a poker chip from his inner pocket, feeling its shape and weight, rubbing it against his knuckles, and then closing his fingers around it. Eames pressed a hand against his forehead, completely aware that he had never felt so scared before. Because it should take a lot more than an one night stand to trigger such reactions out of him. Eames knew dreams could be forged and all, but why, _why_ would he come up with something that only could bring him trouble?

Eames knew the answer as he walked into an old five floor building in Évora, a couple of hours later. When Arthur immediately looked up from his desk at the sound of his voice. When Eames smiled at him and realized how hard Arthur was fighting to not smile back.

"Couldn't stay away, huh?" Arthur dropped his gaze back to the open aluminum case over the table.

Eames didn't reply. He shrugged off his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair. As he stepped closer, Eames noticed Arthur had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, so he could more easily maneuver a tiny screwdriver through the PASIV's delicate gears. He also noticed there were small dirty oil stains spread over both of Arthur's hands, which probably shouldn't have looked as good as Eames thought they did. He felt hypnotized by the little dance of Arthur's fingers, the childish way Arthur's forehead wrinkled every time his hair fell in front of his eyes, how only the first button of Arthur's shirt was undone, the tie still in place, like that was the closest Arthur would come to allowing himself to relax at work.

Once Arthur was finished and he took a piece of fabric to clean his hands, Eames' reaction was immediate. He grabbed Arthur's wrist and watched Arthur raise a calculated eyebrow at him. Arthur didn't try to release himself, though.

"Do you mind?" He inquired, calm and polite, like he was merely asking Eames to _please_ hand him the hammer.

"Very much." Eames grinned in reply.

"You don't strike me as the type of guy who likes to get his hands dirty, Mr. Eames," Arthur warned him, the corner of his lips twisting in a half-smile.

He tugged Arthur's hand close. "Depends on what's at stake, darling." And Eames would have kissed those oil-dirtied fingers if a voice hadn't suddenly echoed from the entrance.

"Eames!" Cobb walked into the room, and Arthur reclaimed his hand from Eames' grip so fast he almost fell onto the chair behind the desk. "Looks like you beat me."

"I just got lucky at the airport," Eames declared. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Arthur rubbing his hands on the piece of fabric so forcefully he would probably end up peeling his skin off.

"Glad you could join us." Cobb gave Eames a vigorous handshake, handing him a folder filled with data and pictures. "I think our guy here is going to need an extra distraction. Sorry I couldn't tell you much on the phone, he's local but has some powerful contacts."

"I see." Eames took his eyes off the folder to look over his shoulder at Arthur, who still didn't dare to look up at them. Arthur's ears were scarlet to their tips. He smiled. "Don't worry. I'll come up with something."

As Cobb left the building about two hours later to check on a matter Eames didn't take the trouble to listen to or to record, Arthur gaze up at him. His eyebrows were shaped in one single, obviously pissed off line.

"_What_ were you thinking-" he started, but Eames cut him off, placing a fingertip over Arthur's lips.

"What I was thinking, Arthur, was that maybe we should skip lunch time and sneak ourselves into that bathroom over there. Then, I'll suck your dick."

And Eames thought, afterwards, how the look on Arthur's face could ever only be trumped by the sound of his own name being moaned somewhere above his head, the pressure of Arthur's fingers digging into his shoulders and hair, the ceaseless shaking of Arthur's legs after he came and Eames got up, pinning him against the door, putting Arthur's shirt back in place, buttoning his trousers and fixing his tie with a lazy, satisfied smile.

They were able to work for the rest of the day without further incidents and when they left the building, hours later, they left together. They took a cab and went directly to the hotel room Eames had booked earlier, though they didn't decide what to do until they found themselves alone, the door shut as a question hanging behind them. So Arthur decided he was starving and Eames ordered Chinese and tried not to laugh as Arthur refused to admit he just couldn't handle the (_dammit!_) chopsticks and Eames just couldn't hold it back anymore when Arthur started to make a fuss over Eames' (but I'm _serious_) offer to feed him by hand and Arthur tried not to smile as Eames went down to ask for silverware from the hotel's kitchen and pulled a face when soy sauce spilled on his (_fuck!)_ shirt.

"Come here." Eames offered Arthur his hand, and Arthur stared up at him and then back to his chest, like he had expected to see Eames handing him a magic solution for ruined tailored dress shirts. Eames rolled his eyes and grasped Arthur's wrist, hauling him all the way to the bathroom.

They had gentle, wet, slow sex in the shower. Arthur's face pressed against his crossed arms pressed against the hideous bathroom yellow tiles. Eames' hands gripping Arthur's hips, his cock sliding in and out of Arthur's body. The groans, the curses coming out of Eames' mouth, were lost in the warm skin of Arthur's neck. The cries, the moans Arthur's clenched teeth tried to keep down being released at the firm touch of Eames' hand around his cock. Eames came first, biting the back of Arthur's neck, his come running down Arthur's thighs, Arthur following right after, his head falling back, eyelids slipping closed, hair dripping and Eames' hand stroking him until the end. Arthur's mouth was only a kiss away, but Eames didn't dare. He softly sucked the spot where his teeth had just marked Arthur's skin and moved them both under the stream of water.

They didn't realize how tired they really were until they faced each other over the bed. Eames smiled, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, and tugged out the end of the sheet, sliding himself under the covers and making room for Arthur. Arthur stared at him, his eyelashes heavy, his body looking smaller than it really was inside an old The Smiths T-shirt he had borrowed from Eames' suitcase, before his hands hesitantly gripped his edge of the sheet and allowed himself to lay down beside Eames, though he kept a safe distance between them. Arthur's lips twisted in some kind of tired, worn out smile and he closed his eyes without further resistance. Eames sunk his head on his own pillow and fought against sleep, trying to watch Arthur's face, Arthur's _lips_, just a little while longer.

Eames only realized he had been asleep when he woke up a few hours later, the lights of the street staining the darkness of their room, glancing at Arthur's face across the bed, a mess of dark hair over the pillow, his mouth slightly open. Arthur twitched a bit in his sleep as Eames couldn't help touching Arthur's face with his fingertips, pulling them immediately back as he heard a small murmur from him. Eames noticed Arthur just wrinkled his forehead and bit his lower lip.

And yes, he thought about it, but Eames knew he shouldn't steal a first kiss like you did with a secret from a manipulated dream. That kind of meaning shouldn't dissipate itself into fog once you woke up. Eames held his hand only a few inches above Arthur's skin and frowned as he saw Arthur grasping a pillow, twisting his face in unmistakable pain.

But Eames only knew for sure that Arthur was having a bad dream when Arthur's body jolted, his eyes wide open, running from nowhere to Eames' fingers, then to his face and finally locking onto Eames' eyes. Arthur closed and opened his mouth but not a single sound came out.

Eames thought about retrieving his hand, but when he so much as tried to move his fingers away, he felt Arthur grabbing his wrist, keeping Eames' hand in place. He held his breath and he tried not to blink, trying to read Arthur, trying to understand and, when he felt a light, almost imperceptible pull from Arthur's hand, Eames tried really hard not to _hope_. Yet, when the last thing he glimpsed, right before closing his eyes, were Arthur's parted lips, Eames couldn't help but wonder that maybe, maybe hoping was the okay thing to do.

Arthur tasted just like waking up in the middle of the night, dying for nothing more than a glass of water. You drank and drank of it and even though you knew it was such an ordinary taste you also knew you had never tasted anything better in your entire life. Then, you would feel warm and lazy as you closed your eyes, as you were hit by this overwhelming anxiety to just sink back into oblivion.

Eames felt Arthur let go of his wrist to grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer, opening his mouth fully beneath his. He felt Arthur tilting his head under his fingertips, he felt Arthur's tongue against his and Eames deepened the kiss, fisting a handful of Arthur's hair.

Eames was on top of him when they broke apart, Arthur's body hot, hard, _ready_ under his. Eames opened his eyes, trying not to smile as he found a breathless, panting Arthur slipping a hand down between their bodies. Eames didn't try to stop him, choosing to lower his head again, taking Arthur's lip between his teeth and biting it gently as Arthur held their cocks. They kissed, touched, gasped against each other's mouths, breathing in and out, their eyes shut, each of Eames' senses crawling out of his skin, Arthur's hand, Arthur's lips, Arthur's tongue and Eames grabbed Arthur's hair, hard, when he came, crushing their mouths and kissing Arthur sloppily, trying to touch and breathe and _breathe_-

Eames felt the unsteady thump of Arthur's heartbeat and noticed he had his head on Arthur's chest. Eames didn't know how his head had ended up there and he didn't care. He only cared about listening to the soft sounds coming out of Arthur's mouth, their breathing slowing together. To the shape of Arthur's hand still stuck between their lower bodies. Eames smiled, because of course he couldn't help it.

"I see you _do_ like to get your hands dirty," Eames sighed, happily.

And breathing over his hair, Arthur replied, shortly.

"_Shut_ up."

Eames laughed, hard, and he pulled Arthur closer, _harder_, into his arms.

Yes, Eames knew Arthur was special. He had known from the very beginning. He knew when Arthur didn't smile back just after they were introduced. He knew when Arthur criticized him, when Arthur smiled for the first time, when Arthur first had a kind word for him. When Eames decided that this wasn't a good idea because they worked together and that would be a hell of a lot of trouble. He knew when he realized he didn't need to know Arthur to care. When he hurt him and felt bad and sad about it and his chest ached. Eames knew Arthur was special when he dreamt about him. When he woke up, scared to death and still certain that was okay, _okay_.

Eames knew Arthur was special because he was worth the trouble.

And that's why Eames was finding it so fucking hard to let it go. To walk away and leave behind him all they had built for the past few months. It wasn't much, really. It wasn't even what you would have called a peaceful, quiet, loving existence. But it did matter. Every kiss. Every talk. Every fuck.

Every fight.

And how they did fight.

It wasn't that bad, right there in the beginning. Eames teased Arthur, Arthur snapped back at him and Cobb frowned, curious, looking at them like they were just children, his eyes half-annoyed, half-soft. And they worked, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Cobb didn't need a forger on every single job and Eames spent his weeks sometimes in Kenya, sometimes in Spain, sometimes in Brazil and Arthur always knew how to find him. And so they met, sometimes to work, sometimes to talk, always to fuck and to kiss. After the first month, the fights began.

Eames didn't mind them, much, then. They were just silly little things, a harsh word, a misplaced gesture, a sideways look. He never thought about how just like all of Arthur's small, insignificant details, those silly little things could find the tiniest breach to drift them apart. Eames didn't mind the fights, then, because despite all of Arthur's half-empty smiles and frequent annoyed glares, Eames could swear Arthur, in his own way, also thought Eames was special.

It was one night, eight months and one week after Évora, following a job where the dream collapsed a _second_ after Cobb was able to extract the mark's secret, that Arthur pinned Eames down in another hotel bed and fucked him into the mattress. Arthur fucked Eames hard, like he had to, like he needed to work all of the universe's anger out of his system. Arthur fucked Eames like what had happened earlier was his fault, somehow. Eames didn't understand Arthur's rage and he couldn't have cared less, because when Arthur grasped Eames' hips, pounding into him faster and deeper, it felt good, _good_.

Once they finished, Arthur disappeared into the bathroom and Eames automatically reached for his poker chip on the nightstand. And he didn't even notice Arthur was back until he felt a heavy gaze over him and he glanced up, meeting a pair of unsettling brown eyes. And Eames' heart sunk a bit as he understood Arthur looked physically hurt just to be staring at him.

"_What_?" Eames put his totem away, speaking just a little bit more sharply than he really meant to. Because he was the one all bruised and sore and it was Arthur's fault, not his.

"I know something happened," Arthur choked in a small voice. "To you."

Eames smiled at him, weakly, all his sharp indignity gone. Though they never had talked about Eames' totem again, sometimes he did notice Arthur watching him, like he expected Eames to start to babble nonsense at any minute. They never talked much about Arthur's totem either, and Eames never second-guessed Arthur's sanity over that. Of course it would be too much to ask Arthur to pay him the same courtesy. Because Arthur was right. Something had happened to Eames and in some strange way, he knew that it did matter to Arthur. And that would be the most endearing thing Arthur had ever said to him if it hadn't been so equally condescending. Eames let out a heavy sigh and grasped Arthur's hand, making him slide onto the bed. He felt Arthur shifting a bit, like he just couldn't relax into Eames' arms anymore. He stroked Arthur's hair and held him closer, putting his chin over Arthur's shoulder. Eames felt cared for. And judged.

"Oh, Arthur, haven't you heard?" Eames breathed, also tired. "Something happened to all of us."

And that one wasn't even a real fight. They had had real fights before. But Eames felt Arthur slowly walking away from him after that night. Unconsciously, Eames did the same. He thought he was just giving Arthur some space. And when they met again, a few weeks later, Arthur was so quiet and distant that Eames teased Arthur until he snapped, starting to yell over a lot of nothing.

So, no. Eames didn't mind the fights and he didn't think it was that bad. Every time they fought, Eames thought that it was okay, because the bad things mattered, too. As much as all the kisses, talks and fucks. Even if, of course, Eames had kissed, talked and fucked a lot of people in his life. Even if Eames had fallen in love more times than he could possibly count. Yes, Eames had said his share of I love you's. Sometimes, he had even meant them.

He never said that to Arthur, though. Eames did think about it, a few times. He thought about how much he loved Arthur every time Arthur tucked his chin against the curve of his neck, when Arthur gasped his name against his mouth, when Arthur saved his arse from a dozen hostile projections, a Glock in his hand, his hair perfectly slicked back and a small shake of his head, which could be translated as a my pleasure, Mr. Eames. Yes, Eames did think of saying I love you, but when the words pierced through his throat and reached his lips, finally ready to come out, Arthur chose that precise moment to turn his head up at him. Arthur stared deep into Eames' eyes.

"Do you still dream?" was what Arthur asked him, then.

And yes, Eames had kissed, talked to and fucked a lot of people in his life. However, he had never fought someone like he fought Arthur. Or like Arthur fought him. It was not that he felt mad about Arthur's question, not at all. It was a reasonable question. Work always was the common place for them to go. They talked about what it was like being able to build their own dreams. They sat, just the two of them, at coffee shops in Chicago, Paris and Oslo and they shared one job experience or two. They even went under together a couple of times. Arthur would always be the dreamer and Eames didn't mind sharing his subconscious with him. They went under when Cobb didn't need either of them and they simulated car chases and ambushes to improve their skills and practice new tricks.

They never, however, talked to each other about their real dreams. Eames never asked what Arthur was dreaming about the night they shared their first kiss and Eames never told Arthur he was the one responsible for him being able to dream again. So, yes, Eames did think about saying I love you, but he couldn't bring himself to tell Arthur he dreamt about him.

"Of course I do," was what Eames replied, instead.

And when they fought, because Arthur needed to learn how to deal with a little chance, because Eames didn't warn him he was going to be late, because, well, didn't Arthur know everything already, because Eames should at least take the trouble to shave himself, because Arthur should try to speak the hell up about what was going on inside that thick skull of his, because Eames forgot to make a stupid hotel reservation, because Arthur obviously never had been introduced to Mr. Sense of Humor, because Eames should try to mind his own damn business, because Arthur for the last time insisted he's okay, _dammit_, because Eames was so good at pointing out Arthur's condescension, because Arthur was so good at pointing out Eames' unreliability, because Eames hung up on his face, because Arthur didn't want Cobb to know, because Eames had _no_ right, because wasn't Arthur a _bloody_ coward, because Eames walked away first, because Arthur was never wrong, because Eames was always wrong, because-

When they fought, Arthur losing every bit of his precious self-control, becoming harsh and mean, Eames never raised his voice, his tone mingled in something between amused, disappointed and conformed. When they fought until they wore off each and every last argument and there was only a shoved door and empty self-promises of never turning back left, cooling and fading between them.

When they fought, all Eames could bring himself to think about was that _maybe_, maybe Arthur dreamt about him, too.

So they stayed away as much as they stayed close. Like being apart hurt as much as being together. They still kissed and fucked, frenetic little touches, but they barely spoke to each other in the last months. Eames tried. Arthur avoided. It was a job which went wrong, it was the rain, the sun, the traffic, the heat, the flight, the wind, the whole bloody world. Eames tried because he loved all of Arthur's little head shakes, the good and bad ones.

But Eames didn't know why or what Arthur was avoiding and he was too afraid to ask. Because the truth was that you could only push so far before something was irreparably broken and Eames knew he couldn't keep pushing forever. Even if all their last fights sounded like they couldn't get any worse. Somehow, they always did. Eames knew he and Arthur didn't have much. Much time, much in common, apart from someone else's dreams to share. He knew that they weren't even on the same page. Eames knew they both lived for reading the same information in order to achieve entirely different goals.

Yet, he tried. He hoped. Eames told himself he was ready to wait, if he had to.

He wasn't.

Eames kept pushing. He pushed it as far as it could get. He showed up, uninvited, at Arthur's flat in L.A., a month and three days after a fight which ended with Eames telling Arthur to _fuck the hell off_. He had flown over half the globe and he was drunk and he bought Arthur a bouquet of red roses on his way from the airport. He didn't know Arthur hated roses and he did ask if Arthur had missed him. Arthur shook his head and asked Eames to leave, please. Eames refused and they fought, again.

It was a clean, fresh night in Los Angeles and Eames forgot how much he loved Arthur. Because there they were. Thirteen and a half months after their first kiss, nine days before their last, right after another talk, another fight, a desperate fuck without one single kiss, and Arthur finally spoke out what Eames knew he'd been avoiding for so long, Arthur's voice hollow and steady.

"It's just... I can't imagine a future for us."

And Eames observed him for a few seconds, then Eames laughed. He laughed because suddenly he knew he just couldn't take it anymore. Eames laughed because that was the only thing he could possibly do. He laughed like he was crying, all those small unselfconscious sounds, and he laid there with his back against the bedpost until soft little noises told him Arthur had finally fallen asleep. Just then Eames dared to look at him. He held back the desire to stroke Arthur's dark hair off his face. Because even though Eames forgot he loved Arthur, Arthur still would be everything Eames thought of him. Smart, hard, impossible to read. Arthur still would be the most insecure person Eames had ever known. Eames closed his eyes and thought about how sad that all was. He snorted, bitterly, for himself.

"It's only because you have no imagination, darling."

Painful as it all was, Eames supposed their fistfight had been a pretty obvious, not to mention suitable last straw. And he did think about leaving the city that exact same night, leaving his jacket and all of his things behind. Eames didn't want to face Arthur. Not after he had punched the mouth he dreamt about kissing. After Arthur had hit him back, hard and with no regret. Eames knew Arthur didn't regret what he had said in L.A., only a few days back. Eames knew Arthur meant every word. Even after they had crossed half the world so they could meet Cobb for a new job, Eames still couldn't shake off the tone of Arthur's voice telling him they didn't have a future. And when Eames grabbed him by his collar for a quick kiss as Arthur sat at his side in the cab, he didn't know that that would be their last one for a long time.

He hadn't imagined that Arthur would be hitting him with all the strength he had in only a matter of days. And he could never have _imagined_ that Arthur thought Eames obviously should feel the same way about them, too. But that was what Arthur yelled at him. That was what hit Eames, hard, and that was what had driven him to hit back. Eames didn't have the words to hurt Arthur, though, so he used his fist instead. Because Arthur had every right to choose how he felt, even if he chose to feel nothing. He had every bloody right. As Eames had a choice when he chose to walk away after their first night and he had chosen to hold Arthur closer, holding him in his arms, following their second. They both had every right to be stupid and selfish in their own, but Arthur had no fucking right to tell Eames how Eames should feel. No right to yell that Eames shouldn't even have had _hoped _for them.

Eames knew Arthur was special, he knew he loved him, even if he tried to forget those things, every now and then. Eames also knew he wouldn't betray the only thing they still had, the common place for them to go.

So Eames showed up in the rented apartment, ready for work, the next day. He faced Arthur, his bruised lower lip, his black eye hidden behind sunglasses, his hair slicked back, his clothes obliviously impeccable. Cobb didn't say a thing, he didn't seem relieved or worried. They finished the job as they had trained to do, Cobb gave him his share and Eames walked away, first.

He couldn't sleep on the plane, after. Eames kept thinking about the day he found out, half-surprised and a bit amused, that Arthur's favorite color was red. When Eames didn't believe him as Arthur confessed that he hadn't had a high school sweetheart.

**(End of Part II)**


	3. It was like dreaming

**It was like dreaming.**

Eames expected Cobb to pick Arthur's side. Those two had worked together for longer, after all. Arthur followed Cobb into the most impossible dreams, always pointing to the safest way out. Cobb was Arthur's mentor and also his friend. Eames understood that. Then, even when Cobb never called him again, he thought it was okay. Eames knew his people and he worked, dreaming or awake, like he always did. And he could even say he missed Arthur if they didn't keep running into each other.

The first time, only five weeks after their fistfight, when Eames spotted Arthur in the same terminal, he thought, wasn't that the meanest coincidence ever? It wasn't. In fact, it was exactly like dreaming. One minute you're there, wide awake, lying down and trying to shut out all the little things that kept you from resting. And in the next you suddenly realize you're somewhere else. Lost inside a place you didn't really know, yet with this sensation you knew you had already felt once. Eames knew that that wasn't the ordinary dream kind, though. Those were the kind of dreams that could be dissected, manipulated, built piece by piece, forged, broken and torn apart. And he was trapped down there, playing the mark who only could fight so far to prevent his secrets from been stolen away.

Not that Arthur had said or asked anything of him. They were at the Verona airport and Eames glimpsed Arthur from the other side of the terminal, before he walked through a maintenance closet's door. Then, Eames waited. He didn't have to wait for too long, really. And that was much like their beginning, yes. Still, it felt worse.

Because when Arthur finally called out his name, his voice harsh, broken, after Eames sucked him off against the closed door, Eames couldn't even allow himself to wonder how Arthur's lips could taste like. He already knew. Eames had memorized its shape. He remembered how Arthur used to moan against his tongue, every time Eames sucked his lower lip. And even if he did miss kissing Arthur more than anything, Eames didn't even dare to try. He just waited, listening to Arthur gasp, breathing hard above him, holding a handful of Eames' hair. He waited for Arthur to say nothing. Not a thanks, not a let's please pretend this didn't happen. Arthur just buttoned his waistcoat and shirt that Eames had opened to suck Arthur's nipples, fixed his tie and zippered his trousers, before leaving Eames alone in the closet.

Eames felt Arthur's come burning on his tongue. And it tasted bitter.

What a funny little thing love was, Eames found himself thinking, three weeks later. He's halfway across the world, performing a forgery for a powerful Chilean politician's wife. He impersonated the man's mistress, a young, petite brunette, so their extractor could steal his secret. It ended okay and Eames was trying to get some sleep in his hotel when he suddenly realized he wouldn't be able to. Yes, he had spent most of his last days under, but it was completely different and Eames liked his sleep. And he blamed Arthur, of course.

Because, though Eames was miles away from being just fine, the first weeks after their 'breaking up', if he could even call it that, were almost bearable. Then, Verona had happened. Bloody Shakespeare should be laughing his arse out of his grave. The problem, then, was very simple: Eames had started to feel _hope_, again.

Now, all those days he had spent kissing and fucking every single person who gave him a chance made him feel shallow. Arthur had turned Eames into a really bad cliché and it would be funny if wasn't so fucking tragic. Because now Eames couldn't sleep. He felt extremely stupid, a little pathetic, a bit betrayed and a _lot_ pissed off. He opened his eyes and scrutinized the room's ceiling, his mind all on Arthur. Arthur, the one who gave back his dreams and now had stolen away his sleep. It wasn't a very fair trade, was it? Eames asked himself, eventually giving up as his head started to pound, taking a mildly strong sedative.

He dreamt about the first time he died on a job. Which wasn't pretty accurate, really, since Eames hadn't known Arthur back then and yet, there Arthur was. In the dream, Eames was playing a distraction so the rest of his team could get the job done and because of that he had jumped into the middle of a fistfight with some kind of projection. It was a dream about a dream and Eames didn't know how he knew that projection was, in fact, Arthur even before he stopped punching him, shoving his skull against the floor. Yes, Eames knew that one was Arthur and still he only stopped hitting him when he felt the sticky blood on his hands and glanced down at Arthur's ruined face. Eames recognized the shape of his lips, the curve of the broken nose and he stared into glassy, empty eyes until he was ambushed and mercifully taken down.

Eames woke up, soaked in a cold sweat and immediately reached for his poker chip, almost dropping it in his rush. Eames rubbed and pressed the totem, hard, against his chest, begging his heart to, _please_, calm the fuck down. And Eames didn't know what scared him the most. The idea he could be unconsciously starting to _hate_ Arthur or that he's just damned to love him forever. Either way, it wasn't really fair.

Eames was back in Mombasa a month later. He worked a few jobs, slept with a few people and burned half of his gains at a poker table. Eames could even say he was going through a nasty stroke of bad luck, but the truth was that despite his soft spot for gambling, Eames didn't believe in luck. Or fate, coincidences and destiny, for that matter.

Yet, the next time they met, they met in a hospital.

The thing was simple, too. People talked. People talked a lot and Eames just happened to be there to listen to them. And apparently Cobb's latest job hadn't ended so well and now, he was looking for an architect. People talking over other people's losses wasn't exactly uncommon, but Eames couldn't think of one single reason Cobb would need an architect. Being an extractor had never stopped him from building before, after all. Still, Eames didn't give the news too much attention. A few days later, however, he heard differently. Eames heard that Cobb's last job was, in fact, a completely messy, bloody disaster. He heard Cobb and his team had had to run away from the mark's _real_ security. Then, Eames heard that one of Cobb's team was caught and yet had managed to escape, though not before he was badly injured. And of course this one was Cobb's point man.

Eames didn't stick around to hear the rest. Took him an hour to find out who Cobb's mark was, where and how in hell it had happened. He made a few calls and he stole a car. Eames never really was into cars. Yet he drove without taking one single break because for eleven freaking whole days Arthur had been right there, only four hours away, just down the main road. On the run, he knew it had always been every man for himself. Eames knew that. Eames practically could say he had invented the goddamn system. Still, if Cobb had somehow managed to show up in front of Eames, he would feel seriously tempted to smash that blond head of his into the closest wall.

Arthur was okay, all things considered. Most of his injuries, cuts and bruises spread over his arms and face, were almost healed. Only a broken ankle that would take a few more weeks of bed rest. Arthur wasn't registered under his real name, of course, so Eames had to work a little magic to steal his patient's file, so he could add something in the spot where it read _next of kin_.

When the nurse announced, her voice cheerful, that his cousin Tom was there to see him, Eames saw Arthur's eyes growing wide. Then Eames noticed how his face suddenly relaxed, before turning a deep purple. He fought back a laugh, because, though it was funny, it was kind of tragic, too. Arthur glared at Eames' laughing face, but only when the nurse left the room, with an excuse to check on another patient, Arthur snapped at Eames to leave him the fuck alone. Eames gazed at Arthur for a few seconds, then let out a deep sigh, because he was feeling so relieved Arthur was okay he couldn't even get mad for Arthur's stick-up-my-arse attitude. Not that Eames hadn't wished he could be welcomed with a little bit more enthusiasm, but this was Arthur they were talking about. Eames slid his hand over his own face and hair and bowed his head. He tried to think, to choose his words more wisely. Still, there was only one thing he could think about saying. The picture which been haunting him.

"I had this dream about you, you see. A month ago, I guess. I saw you dying there, Arthur, and I was-"

Eames stopped, feeling like the biggest bloody idiot on the face of the Earth. It would be really interesting to observe Arthur's reaction once Eames reached the point where he explained that he was the one who, by the way, had killed Arthur. Well, at least Arthur would have his point proved. There wasn't a future for them. Not even in Eames' dreams, apparently. Eames shook his head and thought he should leave before it got worse, as it always did.

Then "Hey," Arthur called out and Eames couldn't help but hope, because that was just a thing he did. "Look at me."

And Eames noticed Arthur wasn't really smiling, but his face seemed definitely softer than before.

"I'm okay," Arthur assured him and Eames sighed, disarmed and hurt, because how could Arthur possibly be okay? Eames couldn't understand that, he didn't want to. Even if it was so simple, it was impossible for Eames to accept that maybe, maybe he was the only who truly regretted whatever they had become.

"You're okay." But Eames repeated Arthur's words, without knowing whether he was saying it for himself or to Arthur. "You're okay." And again, this time sinking one of his hands inside his jacket pocket to touch his totem, rubbing it through his fingers and yet, unable to tell if it was a good or a bad thing he wasn't dreaming. "Guess I should go, then." Eames looked down at Arthur, forcing himself to smile. "Feel better, Arthur."

He turned his back to leave, but Arthur's voice stopped him a second before his hand could reach for the doorknob.

"Eames?"

He turned back, but he didn't say anything. Eames just couldn't trust his voice. So he waited. Arthur's face was serious, just like when he was thinking about a breach in a plan, trying to solve it before it was too late. And Eames knew Arthur wasn't thinking about them. Because it was already too late for them. Still, when Arthur finally decided to speak up, Eames thought he did hear an almost imperceptive tone of anxiety in his voice and Eames shook his head, because, _now_, really?

"Can you get me out of here?" Arthur asked, then, softly. And Eames nodded, sighing.

It was easier than it seemed. Arthur felt better enough to be moved and as Eames helped him to get inside the car, which was covered in dust and mud from the road, he expected Arthur to make a comment about it, to criticize him, for old times' sake, maybe. But Arthur just sat, buckled up and said nothing. Eames didn't say anything either as he drove them to the next city, just to be sure. He had left Mombasa in such a hurry there was a real probability he had left a trail which could easily lead directly to them. And Eames couldn't risk Arthur, especially not in his current condition. Eames found them a nice, small hotel and rented a room for the week. Once he had helped Arthur to the bed, though, Eames hesitated. What should he do? Should he stay? Get himself a room next door? Leave Arthur the fuck alone?

But Arthur wasn't paying attention to him. He was just staring at nothing, a hand playing with the sheet. Eames cleared his throat and Arthur glanced up at him, but stayed silent.

"Do you want me to get Cobb for you?" Eames asked then, only because he knew he would go mad trying to figure out what Arthur could possibly _want_.

But "No," and Arthur shook his head, turning his eyes back to staring at nothing. Eames groaned under his breath and a few minutes later, he tried again.

"Do you... want to talk about it?" Because Arthur wasn't exactly giving him too many options.

"Talk about what?" And Arthur did sound like Eames _had_ gone mad.

Eames threw his hands up. "Cobb? Your ankle? I don't know, Arthur. The bloody weather?"

And Arthur let out a laugh, which didn't even sound like a laugh, more like a throaty, tired noise. "It doesn't look like it's going to rain today," he added, looking up at Eames.

And Eames smiled at him weakly in return, already knowing he just couldn't deal with that. Not with Arthur acting almost _nice_ to him. It was torture. Eames expected to be yelled at, to be criticized, he'd expect even for Arthur just choosing to thank him for the ride before he asked Eames to leave, please. He definitely hadn't expected this. For Arthur to act like he was _comfortable _being in the same room with a man he had fucked for over a year. A man he kissed and worked and fought with. The problem, Eames realized, was Arthur wasn't acting like himself. The problem was Arthur was acting just like something had finally broken inside him and he was relieved, because now he knew it couldn't cause him any more damage.

And of course it didn't have anything to do with them. Because Eames knew they'd reached the bottom floor ages ago. He knew it was bad they had started at all, really bad what they had become and indescribably bad that Eames still felt some hope they could ever set things right. Again, Eames felt like he was trapped in a dream. Because as a dream never starts, a dream never really ends, either. You just woke up before things got better or worse and most times, it wasn't even your choice. Like now.

And as far as Eames knew, Arthur had never been injured in reality on a job before and though being caught should have scared him a little, it didn't explain why Arthur was acting like he was conformed with the whole situation. It wasn't him. Because if Arthur ever noticed something wrong, he wouldn't cross his arms and hope for the best. He would do something about it. Eames knew this because it was what had happened to them. Arthur had watched Eames and noticed something was wrong with him. He had watched Eames following a job which ended badly, at Eames rubbing his totem, at Eames acting like everything was going to be alright when he knew it wasn't and Arthur had done something about that.

Now, on the other hand, Arthur was acting like he had finally looked into the abyss and knowing he couldn't do anything about it, he had just sat down and was waiting for something to happen. Arthur acted like he was expecting to be told what to do and Eames just couldn't deal with that. Arthur wasn't someone you told what do, because Arthur _always _knew what to do.

Eames knew something bad had happened on Cobb's job, but Eames didn't know if Arthur even wanted to be helped. That's why he chose to play the coward card and ambushed Arthur with the one single piece he couldn't fit by himself.

"Why is Cobb looking for an architect?" And Eames watched as Arthur sighed hard, resting his head against the pillows Eames had piled behind his back.

"He says he won't build any more." Arthur wet his lips, like an old habit and Eames found himself trying to ignore those wet lips.

"Why not?" he asked, trying to stay on topic.

Arthur sighed again and shook his head. Eames frowned, remembering that. He and Arthur had had a pretty nasty fight right after a talk which started exactly with Arthur sighing and shaking his head. Eames tried to remember what they had fought over, but he knew he couldn't. Back then everything sounded like a bloody good excuse. And Eames thought how strange it was for him to remember only the sigh and the head shake, like those things were something bigger, not just small, clumsy details. He knew it didn't have some bigger meaning, but it would be nice to not fight Arthur again. Not right now, at least. It was what he expected, but it wasn't what he wanted. Eames knew he couldn't deal with Arthur acting nicely, but he could try. This time, Eames decided he wouldn't push Arthur.

It worked. Eventually, Arthur closed his eyes for a few seconds and when he opened them, Arthur glanced down, directly at his broken ankle. Eames frowned, incapable to read Arthur even after months of practicing. Maybe, Eames thought, it wasn't meant for him to understand, not now. Apparently, Arthur agreed.

"It's complicated," Arthur murmured in reply, his voice small and hurt.

Eames breathed and sat on the edge of the bed, but Arthur didn't seem to notice. He put a hand on the back of Arthur's neck, forcing Arthur to look back at him. Eames could smell the scent from his skin, almost feel the warmth of his breath. Arthur's eyes were unsettled.

"Yeah." And Eames just couldn't help it, not this close, not after driving for four hours straight just to be sure Arthur was okay. Eames broke the distance between them, pressing his forehead against Arthur's. "I bet it is."

And Eames expected to be shoved away at any second. To have a firm, steady hand on his chest followed by an Eames, _don't_. It didn't come. They just sat there, only breathing, their foreheads touching for what felt like minutes. Eventually, Eames sensed a gentle hand on his shoulder and he shut his eyes, already missing the warmth of Arthur's skin, the closeness, everything. What Eames felt, though, was Arthur's nose brushing against his.

He opened his eyes to find Arthur's and Eames could barely register what was going on when the tip of Arthur's tongue touched his lower lip, a jolt of ice and fire piercing through his body. Eames closed his eyes one more time. Because though he already knew the taste, had memorized the shape and heard the sounds, but he wanted all of it over again. He wanted all the same, all the new. Eames held Arthur with one free arm around his waist and Arthur tilted his head, reaching for a better angle, opening his mouth beneath Eames'. Eames felt Arthur's hand on his face, Arthur's tongue sliding hot and wet against his. Their lips slowly touched. Discovering it. Remembering it. Arthur dug his fingers into Eames' hair, tugging him closer. Eames gasped between the kisses, running without air. But Eames had missed it for so long he couldn't bring himself to stop, not then, not ever. It was Arthur who broke the kiss, fisting Eames' hair and looking deep into his eyes, breathing hard and fast against Eames' opened mouth.

"God, I want to fuck you." Arthur's voice sent a shiver down Eames' spine and he tried to kiss Arthur again, but Arthur held him in place. And he repeated, like Eames was deaf or stupid or something. "I want to fuck you right now."

Eames avoided his eyes, trying to keep at least one line of coordinated thought. He took his hands off Arthur's waist and neck to put them on his shoulders, digging his fingers into his skin, already hot under his hands.

"Your ankle, Arthur," Eames said, because someone _had_ to say it. He gazed up and had a brief vision of Arthur's dirtiest smile before he felt his hair being pulled again, Arthur pressing their lips together one more time. Once they broke it, Arthur breathed against Eames' mouth again, his voice harsh and deep and _ready_.

"Can't you ride me?"

And Eames couldn't think of one single reason to disagree. Breathing hard, he helped Arthur take off his clothes, putting a pillow under his immobilized leg. Inside the bathroom's cabinet, Eames found supplies and Arthur was already waiting for him with a hand around his own cock as Eames returned to the room. Arthur closed his eyes and he pumped his cock once when Eames started to undress himself. Eames climbed into bed, dropping little kisses down Arthur's neck and chest, sucking one of his nipples. Eames held the flesh between his teeth before letting go and doing the same to the other one. When he heard Arthur grunting, he shoved Arthur's hand off his cock with a smirk.

"Let's keep our hands on the mattress, shall we?" Eames teased, lifting his body so he could grab both of their cocks with one hand, keeping a nice, slow rhythm. It didn't take long till Arthur started to breathe hard, both of his hands gripping the sheet. Eames gave their cocks a firm, long squeeze, making Arthur gasp for air, his body starting to twitch under his. "Huh, easy there, Arthur," Eames' voice was filled up with unmistakable amusement. "You haven't started to handle _me_, yet."

Arthur's glare pierced him and Eames listened as Arthur swore under his breath. He laughed, releasing them, lowering his head so he could suck the tip of Arthur's cock. Eames heard Arthur hissing through his teeth and his smirk grew wider. Eames reached to grab for the condom and lube, pumping Arthur a little more before unrolling the condom on him, running his lubed fingers all over Arthur's cock. Eames lifted one of his legs over Arthur's waist, positioned his knees carefully, stretching himself with his slippery fingers. He never took his eyes off Arthur. Eames watched as Arthur kept track of the fingers coming in and out of his body. He noticed as Arthur's own fingers twitched over the mattress and smiled, warning him again.

"Arthur, do you want me to tie you down, perhaps?"

Arthur clutched the rumpled sheet so hard Eames was surprised he didn't tear off the fabric. He was ready. They both were. Eames grasped Arthur's cock, finding an angle and lowered his body down, taking it just a little, then pulling back up before sinking in again. Eames flexed his legs, wincing, feeling it burn and he held a breath, trying to relax. He bit his lower lip as he took half of Arthur's cock inside him.

"Eames, _fuck_-" Arthur screwed his eyes shut and Eames smirked.

"We're impatient today, aren't we?"

Eames watched Arthur's cheeks flush, his breath uneven and loud. And though Arthur obviously was dying to put his hands on Eames' hips, to shove Eames down on him, Eames knew he wouldn't dare. Arthur only sank his fingers into the mattress, feeling Eames lowering his body slowly, so slowly on his cock, until Eames took it all. Arthur let a strangled noise out, opening and locking his eyes onto Eames, begging him to _fuck _move already.

Eames obliged him. He grabbed his own cock and started to pump it as he fucked himself on Arthur's. Eames kept a steady rhythm, trying not to make any harsh moves, watching out for Arthur's ankle. Eames felt his own cock becoming hard as a warm feeling rose up through his body. Eames shoved himself against Arthur's cock one more time, taking him all at once and he winced as he saw Arthur grabbing the bedpost to prevent himself from touching Eames. He felt pity for Arthur and started to move faster, his legs beginning to ache as his vision became blurry. Eames squinted down as Arthur's eyes were losing focus, too, his mouth babbling incoherent little noises, and Eames had to control his own breathing, because he was getting closer as well.

Then, when Arthur let out a loud moan, his entire body arching up, Eames immediately stopped moving. Arthur's cock buried deep in him, Eames put a hand on Arthur's chest and looked down at him.

"Do you wanna come?" Eames asked, stroking his own cock as he spoke, keeping Arthur still. Arthur tried to answer, but only incomprehensible noises came out of his mouth. Eames observed as Arthur shut his eyes again, trying to catch his breath back, and smirked. "What? I'm sorry, 'can't hear you, darling."

Arthur struggled and Eames thought how he must admire Arthur's self-control, because if it was him, Eames knew he would have started begging ten minutes ago. Eames felt Arthur's heartbeat beneath the palm of his left hand, the pulsing of his own cock in his right. He saw Arthur parting his lips again.

"Y-_yes_," Arthur finally managed it, voice steady as it could be, knuckles white against the bedpost.

Eames panted as he spoke. "Tell me, Arthur, how do you want to come? You wanna come inside me?" Eames pulled back off Arthur's cock just a little, then sank all the way back down. "Huh? Is that what you want?"

Arthur let a deep groan out and Eames was pretty sure Arthur couldn't care less about _how _or _where_, as long Eames did something, _anything_ about it and did it right freaking _now_. Eames smiled smugly at the view. He loved that. Eames loved to drive Arthur completely out of control. Eames shifted his body a bit, stroking himself harder and faster. Then, with a noise from the back of his throat, a half-moan, Eames came all over his hand and Arthur's belly.

When he regained control of his breathing again, Eames glanced up and found Arthur staring at him, his lips slightly parted, his own orgasm so touchable it hurt. Eames ran three sticky fingertips from Arthur's stomach to Arthur's face and he shoved them into his mouth. And Arthur sucked, cleaning his fingers, then sucking them a little more. Eames breathed, tired, shaking and delirious, and he asked.

"Do you wanna come in my mouth?"

Arthur's pleading, painful cry was all the answer Eames needed. He slid himself off Arthur, rolled the condom off and pushed Arthur's uninjured leg so he could have more room. Eames looked up at Arthur as he grasped the base of his cock, tasting the tip and licking the pre-come, making Arthur arch his back like he had been electrocuted. Eames lifted Arthur's leg a bit more and, mouth on his cock, he started to fuck Arthur with the same three fingers Arthur had just sucked. Eames took all of Arthur's cock in his mouth, his fingers sinking deeper inside him. And Arthur was so close he wasn't even able to give Eames a decent warning before coming impossibly hard into his mouth. Eames choked a little, swallowing what he could, then licking all the remains off Arthur's inner thighs and stomach.

Eames admired Arthur when he was done. Arthur's eyelids half-closed, the red of his cheeks slowly fading, his chest rising up and down evenly. Though Eames wouldn't get tired of watching Arthur undone like this, he couldn't help but wonder if he would get the chance to do that again. Because when Eames was alone, missing Arthur was hard, yes, but the worst part was knowing that even if he had the _choice _to forget about Arthur, like it was some kind of on/off switch, he probably wouldn't have the balls.

Though Eames never was the death wish type, he admitted that maybe he could be just a little bit of a masochist in Arthur's case. Eames wet his lips, tasting his and Arthur's come on his tongue. He knew what he wanted was to lift his body up and kiss Arthur's lips just one more time, but he didn't dare. Instead, Eames spoke the first thing to come to his mind.

"You didn't tell Cobb about it, did you?"

And for a second or two, Eames thought Arthur had fallen asleep but, as an afterthought, the reply came.

"Told him about what?"

And Eames knew the answer would sound stupid even before it left his mouth.

"Us." He snorted, trying to make it less than it really was. "That we keep seeing each other."

Arthur observed him just for a second before shaking his head. Eames was half-grateful Arthur didn't choose the moment to announce something mood-killer like don't be ridiculous, it has been two times, only. Or even a there isn't an us, Eames. Still, Eames knew those were the kind of things Arthur probably would end up thinking anyway.

"No," Arthur then responded, his voice still deep and harsh. "He doesn't really talk much about what he does in his free time and neither do I."

Eames tried to choke back a laugh, but it escaped. Arthur frowned back at him.

"_What_?" Arthur inquired and for a second Eames thought the orgasm must have burned some of Arthur's little gray cells. Usually, Arthur just tried to ignore whenever Eames laughed near him.

"Nothing." Eames shook his head. "It's just quite comfortable to know you still think of me as a hobby." And he hadn't answered that way to piss Arthur off. Eames just missed that part so much as well. The talking, the teasing. Every time he just tried to make Arthur laugh. "It's really charming. In some objectified sort of way, of course."

Arthur avoided his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. His breathing had almost settled down, then. Eames shifted on the bed, stealing a pillow for himself, lying down on Arthur's side. He eyed Arthur, who didn't look back, or tried to reply. Eames couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or not. Probably wasn't.

Eames felt the need to sleep starting to wash over him and, judging by Arthur's heavy eyelashes, so did he. But Eames didn't want to fall asleep and wake up just to find out it was all over, like in the good old dream fashioned way. He reached for one of Arthur's hands, lying on his chest, and covered it with his own.

"You and I won't be having this discussion again, right?" Eames asked, not because he wanted to know the answer. Eames just knew he didn't really have a choice.

And Arthur looked hurt, and only hurt, when he faced Eames back.

"No." Still, Arthur did clutch Eames' fingers between his. "No, we won't."

**(End of Part III)**


	4. It wasn't impossible

**It wasn't impossible.**

Eames didn't show Cobb how surprised he was. Though he really didn't pay too much attention, Eames still heard all about Cobol's price on Cobb's head. And though Eames knew they had their own ways to even the score, he also knew Cobb being there so soon was pretty much suicidal. He avoided Cobb's eyes for most of the conversation, out of habit, yes, but also because Eames had no idea whether Cobb was aware of his point man's _relapses_.

Because although he didn't seem fooled by Eames' nonchalant reaction at the mention of Arthur's name, Cobb didn't insist. Still, Eames did try to picture the scene: Cobb breaking the news to Arthur, warning Arthur he was going to ask for Eames' assistance, then Cobb pretending he didn't realize how convenient it was that Arthur knew exactly where Eames would be. Not that Eames and Arthur had seen each other much, lately, anyway. Seven months had passed since the last time they had kissed. Five since they fucked. And Eames had lost count of how much time had passed since he and Arthur had _actually_ talked. In their last few meetings Eames was only able to tell how Arthur was doing by guessing at Arthur's body language, the way he frowned and sighed when he thought Eames wasn't looking, how Arthur distractedly drummed his fingertips on the tabletop in a bar.

It was nice to know Arthur still kept an eye on him, Eames thought, even if that didn't mean much. After all, Arthur being Arthur, he just _had_ to know everything. So, Eames tried not to get his hopes up as he spent the next few days following Peter Browning from Sydney across the globe. The guy wasn't exactly hard to read, but Browning's schedule was _insane_. Eames must have visited at least three different continents in a matter of two weeks and he spent his nights in front of numberless hotel room mirrors, practicing every one of Browning's pursuits, expressions and mannerisms he had observed during the day.

When he finally took a plane to Paris, Eames knew he had everything he needed to get the job done. And yet, he had not one single clue of how hard it could be, having Arthur around.

Eames walked into the warehouse on his first morning with _deja vu_. And he just couldn't shake it off until he noticed noises and found Arthur next to a chalkboard covered with papers, notes and photographs. Arthur had his back to him and he was bent over a desk, where Eames spotted a familiar aluminum case. He also couldn't help noticing the way the fabric of Arthur's trousers was stretched against the curve of his ass.

"Precisely what I'd call a nice angle to see things differently."

Arthur rose up at the sound of his voice. An involuntary smile grew over Eames' face as he expected for Arthur's default annoyed glare to pierce him. But once Arthur shifted, what Eames first noticed was the young woman sitting behind the desk, so far shielded by Arthur's body.

Eames knew her name was Ariadne and that she was Cobb's architect. What Eames didn't know was that she had already built more than just a few labyrinths for him to cross. Arthur followed the line of Eames' eyes to Ariadne, raised his eyebrows and stuck both of his hands into his trousers' back pockets. He glanced at Eames and Eames thought he saw a shadow of a smile on his face. It didn't last, if it ever had existed, though.

"Ariadne," Arthur's voice all business. "Meet Eames." Then, the shadow of a smile turned into an unmistakable smirk. "Just try not to get too close. You could end up losing your wallet or something."

That Ariadne girl didn't seem to know whether or not she should laugh at that. Eames didn't have the answer, either. Arthur used to be a little less aggressive when there were other people around, but Eames was okay with that. A bad reputation was better than none and he would rather have Arthur being aggressive than just choosing to ignore him. Eames walked over to them as Ariadne stood up so they could shake hands..

Eames thought she had a pretty hard grip for such a small bird.

"You're a thief, then." Ariadne smiled a little smile, tilting her head.

"Or something." Eames winked and, from the corner of his eyes, he saw Arthur rolling his back. "Little Arty here could tell you a good story or two."

Ariadne chuckled, releasing Eames' hand. Arthur put a hand on her shoulder, glaring at him. "Hey," Arthur said. "Can you show me the level two model one more time? I need to check on something."

She gave Eames a wave of her hand as Arthur dragged them both away. Eames watched Arthur's back for a while and, as they disappeared into another room, he sighed audibly. Eames had known it wouldn't be easy for him and Arthur to be this close and yet he had accepted Cobb's offer anyway.

Eames just hadn't know it could become almost impossible.

During the first days, Eames thought Arthur was just trying to play with him. A payback for all his bad jokes and inappropriately placed comments, maybe. So Eames played along. Arthur snapped at him, Eames teased him back. For while, Eames let himself believe that it was some kind of elaborate, even if sick, scheme that Arthur had chosen to show Eames he still cared about him.

It wasn't. Eames noticed how Arthur acted with Ariadne, how he smiled when she made a joke. An ordinary person could have missed it all. Anyone else would have thought Arthur was just being a gentleman, a good teammate. But Eames knew better. Over the past two years he had memorized the shape of Arthur's smile and he thought of how much it hurt to watch that impossible smile being given to someone else.

Eames couldn't blame her, though. He liked the girl. Ariadne's only faults were to be pretty, funny and bright. Not that this made things any easier for Eames. Because of course he had fucked other people since he and Arthur stopped seeing each other, and Eames was pretty sure Arthur did the same. Yet somehow, Eames had never thought he would live to watch Arthur falling for somebody else.

It wasn't that Eames thought Arthur would love him forever and all. The truth was Eames didn't really know if Arthur had ever loved him. And it wasn't a self-loathing thing, either; he just believed it was okay for two people to not love each other in the exactly same way. Eames also knew he couldn't stop himself believing in that. Like Cobb used to say, an idea was the most resilient parasite. Eames wouldn't have proclaimed Arthur had crawled under his skin, lodged himself inside a vital organ and started to suck the life out of Eames, but, well. The truth was sometimes Eames _did_ feel sick just looking at Arthur.

So, Eames smirked back, he practiced on Browning and teased the hell out of Arthur every chance he got. It wasn't enough, wasn't near close to enough, but it was a lot better than listening to Arthur telling Ariadne how good she was.

Not that Eames could ever say otherwise, even if he wanted to. Not after he and Ariadne went under together for the first time. Because while Eames had been busy following Browning around the world, Ariadne had been busy right there, designing the three dream levels and she had already gone under with Yusuf and Arthur to show them the first two level's sketches. Following their first group briefing, Ariadne approached Eames and asked if she could steal fifteen minutes of his time. She explained the need to visualize the third level's labyrinth so she could add some features onto her final project. So, since Eames' services as a forger wouldn't be necessary once they had hit the bottom level and he was the one designated to dream it, wouldn't it be easier if they went together down there first?

Right before Yusuf put them out, Ariadne had shown Eames the hospital model and he wasn't impressed. The thing was that up here, in the real world, Ariadne's work was nothing. Absolutely nothing compared to what she was able to do down there. Eames had been on the job for awhile and he had never, ever seen a dream that felt so real. They were on the top of a mountain and Eames could feel the icy cold wind rushing over him, the smell of the snow. He wasn't really big on snow and all, either, but in that dream, it did feel great.

"Bloody hell," Eames exclaimed as they climbed down the mountain and started to explore the building. He dropped his hood to look down at her, panting. "It is something."

Ariadne was panting a little as well. "Thanks," she replied. "But I still have a lot to do in this one. It's just a sketch."

"Hell of a sketch." Eames smiled and Ariadne smiled back.

Stairwells grew beneath their feet and walls rose around them as he and Ariadne made their way through the maze. Eames' mind switched into automatic mode, looking for exits, memorizing useful spots for future reference. Yes, Cobb had mentioned they would have lots of times to cross this one last maze, but Eames hadn't gotten this far by being stupid enough to believe that. When they reached the second floor, Ariadne spoke again.

"Can I ask you a question?" She bit down on her lower lip and glanced up at Eames.

He frowned back, puzzled. Eames probably was the most imaginative member of their entire team and even so he couldn't think of one single question Ariadne could bother to ask him. Eames looked sideways and smirked.

"Only if you won't mind if I answer it."

Her clear laugh echoed on the newly built walls. "I always thought that was the general idea."

"Is that right?" Eames was walking faster now he wasn't knee deep in the snow. Then he realized Ariadne's short legs were forcing her to jog to keep up with him and he slowed down a little. "I know my share of people who don't like it very much."

Ariadne wrinkled her forehead.

"Why would people ask a question that they didn't want to know the answer to?"

Eames noticed she seemed truly baffled at the very idea and he couldn't blame her, really. Ariadne was far too young. Eames couldn't help but think about Arthur, who was pretty young, too. Still, Eames asked him a lot of those questions. Remembering Arthur made his chest ache, as usual. Down here, amazed over the dreamscape, Eames could try to forget about him a little, but it wasn't real, he knew it. And once he woke up, Arthur would be there and Eames wouldn't be able to hold him, to kiss him like he wanted to do. He looked down at Ariadne who was watching him patiently, innocent curiosity dancing in her eyes.

Eames winked at her in a soft way. "Maybe they just wanted to hear them talking."

Ariadne parted her lips, her frown deepening and, before she could come up with anything else, Eames continued. "So, my dear. What can I do for you?"

She gave him a suspicious glance that lasted at least three seconds. Smart kid, Eames thought.

Ariadne cleared her throat. "I was just thinking about my totem and I'd like your opinion."

Eames raised his eyebrows. That's odd, he thought. Ariadne had just started on this job, why would she need a totem already? Eames himself had only gotten his after two years in the field. Not that he would judge her, of course. Always better to be safe than sorry.

"Fear of losing track of reality, huh?" he teased, but just a little.

Ariadne chuckled. "Let's say I maybe might have added real places to my second dream workshop's lesson." And Eames noticed she didn't look one bit guilty.

He whistled, impressed. "Bold. Guess daddy didn't like it."

"If you're talking about Cobb, you bet. He was mad." Ariadne laughed and grew a small bridge on their way into a larger chamber. "Anyway, I noticed you always have your poker chip and Arthur told me that-"

"Sorry?" Eames interrupted her. Arthur's name had unsettled him more than the mention of his totem, but Ariadne didn't need to know that.

"It's a poker chip, right? Your totem, I mean. I saw it these past few days, you're rubbing it in your hand."

_Really_ smart kid.

"Right," Eames offered.

Ariadne stopped to study a collection of windows, frowning and talking at the same time. "So, Arthur told me I should choose something _unique_. You picked a poker chip. He has a loaded die. What's that? Some kind of rule?"

Eames' heart started to pound and he shut his thoughts down before Ariadne could notice it as well. He grinned at her. "Well, you must choose something with a special meaning, for you, I mean. This way, you always will be able to remember it, even during a very stressful job."

She turned back from the windows, staring at him. "How much stress are we talking about? Stress-inception?" Ariadne pointed out, sharply.

Eames snorted. "Pretty much."

They went back to walking in silence and Eames felt his mind slipping away at each and every step. He couldn't stop thinking about what Ariadne had revealed just a few minutes ago. She obviously hadn't known it was that important, otherwise she wouldn't have said anything. Or, maybe she _did _know and it just wasn't really as important as Eames used to think it was.

The point was that Eames knew Arthur's totem, back then, when they were together.

And it wasn't a die.

Eames remembered that night like it was a shared dream. Like it happened inside someone else's mind, filled up with another subconscious, all clear and yet kind of alien. "A _key_?" He had asked Arthur, then, curious, as he spotted it over the nightstand. Following an especially good job, they had decided to stay in London for a couple of weeks. Eames had mixed feelings towards Chelsea. There was the first bed Arthur ever fucked him in, but it was also where they had had their first big fight. The night Arthur had talked about his totem was one of the good ones, though. After Arthur slowly slid out of him, that was the first thing Eames' eyes focused on. It was a small, slim, aluminum key.

"_Do__n't_ touch it," Arthur warned, his voice muffled against Eames' shoulder. Eames laughed, feeling Arthur's warmth breathing into his hair. "Does it open something?" Eames asked, just to prevent Arthur from falling asleep. Arthur groaned, pressing his forehead against Eames' neck. He could feel Arthur's wet hair and he shivered a bit. "_Does_ it?" Eames insisted and Arthur sighed deeply, lifting an arm over Eames' body so he could reach for the key. Arthur held it right under Eames' eyes and Eames frowned, confused. There weren't any marks on it, like that key was never made for use.

Then Arthur said "What good has a key without its lock?" and Eames laughed again and asked Arthur if he was drunk or high or something. Arthur closed his fingers around the key and held Eames, pressing a fisted hand against his bare chest. And Eames had almost fallen asleep when he heard Arthur's voice telling him to never mind, that it was just a thing his mother used to say to-

Eames felt a hard pull on his arm. He gazed down at Ariadne, but she wasn't really looking at him. Her eyes were running around the room they just had stepped in.

"Is that music?" she wondered with a little twist of her lips.

It was Piaf, of course. He remembered how Arthur used to love that song and it was becoming obvious to Eames that the whole bloody universe hated him. He took a deep breath, just paying attention to the lyrics because he had to. Eames ran a hand over his face, not quite ready to go back up above and to face Arthur and his loaded die.

Because it had to be Arthur's idea of a joke. He had fought Eames for months, most times just because Eames was Eames and Arthur was Arthur and children shouldn't try to attempt mixing that sort of thing at home. And Eames used to tease Arthur about that, that Arthur needed to deal with a little chance in his life, that Arthur couldn't plan everything ahead of time, that unexpected things did happen. Then, what? Once Arthur was over Eames, he went and chose to pick a new totem which screamed a yes, Mr. Eames, that's how I deal with a little chance in my life.

Eames sighed hard, feeling stupid, paranoid and only a bit relieved at having just Ariadne down there with him. He finally caught up with the song (_"__Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs... Je n'ai plus besoin d'eux!"_), snorted and checked his wristwatch.

"Ten minutes, my dear. Got everything you needed?"

Ariadne thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I do."

They were in the antechamber, right outside the strong-room, which really was just a room that didn't look very strong. Not yet, Eames supposed. Still, if he thought about it, the point was it had taken them a _lot _just to get down there. And mind there weren't any hostile projections on their arses or even two levels up above, unstable and ready to crumble down over their heads. Eames shut out an annoying inner voice saying look who likes to plan things ahead, too? and cleared his throat, which caused Ariadne to frown up at him.

"Yes?" she asked.

"'Think you could add an air duct system cutting through the maze?"

Ariadne gave him a face, a hand on her hip.

"I see," Eames rephrased. "Do you think it would be _okay_? Because, of course you could do it. You're the architect and you can do anything you want down here. You're like the little queen for this entire little world, my dear Ariadne."

She laughed, shaking her head, and then she smiled softly at Eames. "Let's see it." Ariadne started to run her eyes around the room, tilting her head like she was trying to visualize inside the walls and probably cracking it.

"It's doable." She crossed her arms over her chest a couple of seconds later. "I don't know about this queen thing, though. You know, I always thought of myself more as a pawn that needs to build up the game for the bigger players before they-"

Eames had just checked his watch one more time when Ariadne stopped talking with a hard gasp and he stared down at her. Eames thought she looked like someone who had just discovered electricity.

"You know what?" Ariadne announced, triumphantly. "I _do _like chess."

"What, looks like someone just got a brand new totem." Eames patted Ariadne's shoulder.

The music grew louder as the seconds died. They walked closer to the window to watch the snow outside.

"The air duct is a great idea, by the way," Ariadne added, thoughtful. "I should have something done by tomorrow, if you'd like to see it."

"No worries, my dear." Eames stared up over the mountain, watching an avalanche getting closer to them. "You take your time."

The floor beneath their feet shook, hard. Eames closed his eyes. All he could hear was Piaf singing she regretted nothing and then, then Arthur was looking directly down at him, his firm hand taking the needle out off Eames' wrist. Eames opened his mouth, trying to come up with something, but the moment passed and Arthur turned his back to check on Ariadne. He left without talking to either of them.

Eventually, Eames spotted Arthur's die, but he didn't say anything. If Eames was completely honest with himself, he would have admitted he just hadn't anything to say. He noticed Arthur slipping a hand inside his pocket every now and then, though not as often as Eames did.

He rubbed the poker chip through his knuckles when Arthur smiled in his direction and, for a second or two, Eames got his breath taken away, but as the totem didn't change, the air was back in Eames' lungs and his heart sank as he realized Arthur was actually smiling back at Ariadne, who had just waved to him from the other side of the room.

She and Eames went under a few other times and every time Eames liked Ariadne better and liked that fucking job less. He watched Arthur and Ariadne lying down in their respective lawn chairs and Eames was _certain _he had just seen them both holding hands, but the poker chip turned in two between his fingers and Eames woke up in his hotel bed. As his breath settled down he felt relieved, yes, but mostly just stupid.

He forced a laugh when Yusuf tested the first versions of the sedative, pushing Arthur off a chair. Eames kept his hands crossed tight over his chest, because he knew he would be tempted to reach for Arthur before he could even fall. But he didn't dare to talk to Arthur when they found themselves alone and glanced up at each other over a desk full of papers, a reclining chair, an aluminum case, like they were challenging the other to even _try_.

Arthur didn't speak to him more than was strictly necessary and Eames wasn't really surprised, just disappointed. Of whom, he didn't really know. As Eames arrived in the mornings Arthur was always there, and he immediately looked up at the sound of Eames' voice, like he was waiting for a joke, a tease, or nothing.

Every day Eames went under for a few minutes in order to practice inside Browning's skin and every day he woke to find Arthur unhooking him off the tubes. One evening, Eames couldn't stop himself from grabbing Arthur's wrist as their eyes met. Arthur looked down at him.

"Do you mind?" Arthur asked, then, calm and polite.

And Eames smirked back at Arthur, but he didn't know what to say, so he just let him go.

That night, Eames jerked himself off in the shower, like a bloody teenager, pressing his cock between his fingers, hissing the orgasm through his clenched teeth as the hot water hit him on the back, running down his legs. Arthur's name was on his mouth the whole time.

The next day, when Eames woke up after his daily practice as Browning, it was Yusuf who was there to unhook him and Eames shook his head hard, trying not to, but knowing it was already a lost battle. If Eames couldn't convince himself that he and Arthur were over, so fucking over, he knew he wouldn't be able to do his job and this time, well, this time it wasn't exactly the kind of job you could just choose to walk away from.

Arthur didn't look up when Eames approached his desk, two days later. It was early morning and Arthur was alone in the warehouse, working on his laptop, his eyes running from an open folder, then back to the screen. Arthur's inseparable notebook was open with a pen stuck between the pages filled with an illegible handwriting that nobody but Arthur himself could decipher. Pictures and files covering every possible aspect of Robert Fischer's life were spread over the tabletop in some sort of organized chaos. Eames stepped closer and peered over Arthur's shoulder.

"What difference does it make if we give Fischer the wrong blood type in a dream?"

Eames heard Arthur sighing deeply, but he waited in silence as Arthur saved the file and closed the laptop, before turning his chair and facing him.

"None," Arthur answered. "But let's say he's injured and he needs a medic. It would be strange if we gave him the wrong type in a hospital, for example, since they should have his file or something. And Fischer could notice it and his subconscious would throw a mess onto our hands."

Arthur's voice was all business, as usual. Eames wondered if Arthur had always had that tone or it was something new on him. He couldn't remember. Maybe Arthur had always had it and Eames just hadn't wanted to admit it, because it would mean the Arthur who kissed him and the Arthur who looked away from him were the exact same person and maybe, maybe all the things that had happened just didn't matter.

"I see." Eames straightened up, his hands in his jacket pockets.

Arthur crossed his arms and lay back in the chair. "You do? _Really_?" His face was unreadable, but his tone had turned into obvious impatience. "That's a question I could have expected from Saito or even Ariadne, Eames. You know that. You should know. Because if you don't, you also don't have any business being here, doing this job." There was a sparkle of anger in the brown eyes. "We can't fuck this up."

Eames knew Arthur was right. He knew that it was a bloody amateur question, but he wasn't thinking straight. How could he? When Eames had decided to have this little chat with Arthur, he had promised himself he would get directly to the point and then be out of Arthur's impeccable slicked hair as fast as he could. Now, Eames wasn't so sure. Now, he just felt happy listening to Arthur talking, even it was for Arthur to criticize him. And maybe even that did make some sense. After all, criticizing Eames was something he knew Arthur _loved_ to do.

Masochist, _definitely_, Eames thought with an inner grin.

"That's interesting," he stated, balancing on the balls of his feet. "You see, I remember Cobb telling me that you didn't believe _this_ could even be done."

Arthur sighed, again. "And I don't."

And as he observed Arthur uncrossing his arms, relaxing his shoulders, Eames realized Arthur had just confided in him. Why in hell, Eames could only wonder. He wet his lips, swallowed hard and looked away for a second, before turning back to Arthur. Eames knew he couldn't stop now, even if he wanted to. He had to push, he needed to _understand_.

"And you are doing it anyway," Eames pointed out. "For what? Money? To impress our little architect? To-"

Eames stopped as Arthur stared down at his hands in his lap, like Arthur could find an answer in the lines traced over his palms.

"You know why, Eames," Arthur muttered, then.

Eames did know, of course. He had to push Arthur, but he already knew the answer. Arthur wasn't doing it for money, for recognition, not even for the fun in having an impossible puzzle to solve. Arthur was doing it for Cobb. He might not believe it could work, but Arthur had to be there to point Cobb toward the way out in case everything fell apart. A very possible case, in Arthur's perspective. Eames wondered if during their time together Arthur had trusted him that much, at least for awhile. But he didn't know and he wouldn't dare to ask. That's why Eames tried another question, instead.

"What is it that Cobb needs Saito to fix this badly?"

Arthur looked up at him. He didn't seem really surprised at the question itself, more like Arthur just didn't expect for Eames to say it aloud. Well, Eames hadn't planned to ask that one, either. He still believed Cobb's life was Cobb's business only. Yet Eames knew he wouldn't just walk away if he smelled trouble this time. He couldn't do it anymore. Because even if Arthur didn't trust Eames with his life, Eames trusted Arthur with his.

"They think he killed his wife." Arthur blinked. "He can't go home."

Eames already knew that one, of course. And that sucked, sure, but it wasn't his problem. Or Arthur's problem, for that matter. He couldn't help Cobb to bring his wife back. It wasn't even like Arthur could do better research this time in order to prevent such a thing from happening again either. They could dream about it, but they couldn't change reality. Eames couldn't change what had happened to any of them. To Cobb and his wife, to Arthur and to himself. But he and Arthur were both alive, right here, and Eames would be a fool if he didn't at least try. And maybe that was what he was doing, then. He was trying.

Because _someone _had to try.

"And what, Arthur?" Eames blinked back. "Did Mr. Cobb kill Mrs. Cobb, then? Is that why you're keeping this up, even if you don't believe this can be done? Because it's the only escape?"

Eames himself didn't think that was true, but he had to extract some reaction from Arthur. Something that could make him understand Arthur's blind trust in Cobb. Something that could make Eames understand what had happened to Arthur and to him. Because how could Arthur rely on some kind of _hope_ for this job to work for Cobb, but be incapable of doing the same for them? Eames had never asked for an Inception. He just wanted a reason which made the slighting bit of sense.

"That's just sick," Arthur huffed in disbelief at him.

"Is it?" Eames' voice was firm, but his heart had started to pound fast against his chest. "Because we've been through this before, Arthur. One day, we are perfectly okay, then we had a job. Things go a little wrong, a dream collapses and you fucking _lose _it. So I realized you just can't look at me anymore. Why are you willing to follow Cobb into something so bloody difficult, something that you don't believe is even going to work, and yet not be able to tell me what the hell happened to us?"

Arthur's eyes seemed tired as he slid a hand over his hair, fixing an imaginary strand out of place.

"It's complicated," he said softly and Eames rolled his eyes.

"So uncomplicate it, bollocks!" Eames threw up his hands. "Aren't you a bloody point man? Isn't it your job to know all the complicated things so you can explain them in a way anyone can understand?"

And Eames hadn't realized he had started shouting until he saw Arthur's face, his jaw hanging open.

"You just yelled at me," Arthur offered, wrinkling his forehead.

"No, I did not," Eames blurted out before he could stop himself, but as he noticed Arthur smiling smugly at him, Eames thought it was worth it. "Okay, maybe I did. Just a little."

"More than a little. It was-" Arthur trailed off, raising an eyebrow at Eames. "Wait a minute. You said our _little _architect? You meant Ariadne?"

Eames fought back a laugh. He knew Arthur was doing that on purpose. Because Arthur never missed a thing and he had obviously caught that line the first time Eames said it. He thought about pointing it out, but Eames decided against it. He could use that as well.

"I guess I did," Eames shrugged.

Arthur crossed his arms again. He wasn't smiling anymore, but his face still looked smug. "Why would I want to impress her?"

"Isn't that obvious?" Eames tilted his head and observed Arthur shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"I don't like her," Arthur responded, avoiding Eames' eyes. "Not like that, anyway."

Eames hadn't expected that. And he knew Arthur was telling him the truth. He knew because Arthur would have to be an idiot to refuse a way out like this one and Eames knew Arthur was no idiot. Eames knew that because he did know Arthur and the truth was Arthur just couldn't lie to him. Because Arthur couldn't bring himself to lie to Eames even when that was the only merciful thing to do.

"Maybe you don't." Eames allowed it, lowering his head to get closer to Arthur. "But you wish you did, right? Because wouldn't it be easier, this way?"

Arthur didn't flinch when he looked up at Eames. He didn't try to move, to shove him away. But he didn't try to touch Eames' face, just a few inches apart, either.

"Easier? Me and Ariadne?" Arthur looked like he was trying hard not to laugh. Whether it was because he found that funny or scary, Eames couldn't know. "Is that some kind of reverse psychology bullshit?"

"Is it?" Eames asked already knowing his question could mean anything. This time, Arthur scowled at him. He shoved Eames back with the palm of his hand and got up, putting some distance between them. He didn't walk away and leave Eames alone, though.

And when Arthur remained silent, Eames chose to tease him.

"Wanna know what I think, Arthur?"

And Arthur snapped back.

"Do I really have a choice or are you going to tell me anyway?"

Eames grinned. God, he had missed that.

"I think you see yourself in her," Eames explained. "Young and talented, amazed with this fascinating new power. Not to mention all the preciseness of those models and rules. She can build the world of your dreams. _Literally_. Imagine that, Arthur. All the specificity you could ask for."

All the smugness on Arthur had disappeared. "In short, you think I empathize."

"Or that you have a nasty secret desire to fuck a doppelganger. Either way, I still would be a better option." Eames shrugged, smirking.

The corner of Arthur's mouth twisted a bit. "Are you calling me a narcissist?"

Without a warning, Eames grabbed Arthur's tie, hauling him into a hard, quick kiss. Eames felt the warmth of Arthur's breath against his face and when he glanced up, Arthur lips were slightly parted in something that could be surprise, fear or indifference. Eames couldn't decide which one would be worse. Or better.

"Not at all, darling," he sighed, replying with a small tilt of his head. "I'm calling you a coward."

Eames released Arthur's tie and turned to leave. Yes, he knew he hadn't done what he had planned to do, but that was okay. Eames could wait. He had thought he couldn't, but the truth was Eames had been waiting for Arthur all this time. He had never ceased to hope for them. Yes, Eames knew he couldn't stop believing in that as much as he couldn't force Arthur to do anything he didn't plan or want to do. And even if Arthur didn't know what he wanted, Eames understood Arthur had to see it for himself. Only that way could Arthur decide what was worth trying or wasn't.

Eames was just five feet away from Arthur's desk when his voice reached him.

"About Cobb." Arthur articulated. "It's still complicated."

Eames nodded, his smirk gone. "I bet it is."

**(End of Part IV)**


	5. It was just bloody difficult

**It was just (bloody) difficult.**

Eames couldn't stop himself from observing Cobb very closely, then. He noticed Cobb seemed troubled, yes, but not a lot more than usual and thinking about what they were up to, well, Eames thought that being troubled was likely the natural response.

He spotted Cobb lying down, hooked up to a PASIV, almost every night before he left the warehouse, obviously needing to dream for his own and Eames wouldn't ever judge him for that. Eames remembered watching those people down in Yusuf's basement a few weeks earlier, knowing how easily he could have been one of them. If it wasn't for Arthur, he probably would be.

Eames still had some trouble sleeping, though. That was one of the main reasons he used to stick around Mombasa for so long. Eames had met Yusuf when he and the team he'd been working with tried to perform inception for the first time, and even though they had failed, Eames and Yusuf kept in touch, mostly because Yusuf's compounds helped Eames sleep without wearing him out.

Since he and Arthur were back to working under the same roof, however, Eames didn't need to take anything. He slept just fine, and he dreamt about Browning playing with his glasses in a way Eames was sure Browning never done before and then Fischer noticed it and the whole plan fell apart and Arthur was yelling at him for ruining Cobb's chances to get back to his kids and Ariadne was there to put a friendly hand on Arthur's shoulder and Arthur-

Eames' phone was ringing and, as he picked it up, he thought he was still dreaming. Because it was Arthur's voice on the other end.

"It's time," Arthur announced and Eames reached for his poker chip and rubbed it against his fingers a bit, just in case. "Maurice Fischer's dead."

"All right, then," Eames answered and Arthur hang up without saying anything else. And Eames knew he shouldn't feel disappointed or sentimental or what, but the truth was it was the first time in a year Arthur had called him.

There was one last team meeting before they caught a plane to Sydney and it was decided they would go in two separate groups. Yusuf needed a couple more hours to pack his chemicals safely and since Ariadne was going too, she had a few things to take care of before then. Arthur obviously had everything ready to leave immediately, but he visibly hesitated as Saito asked who was going first with him. Cobb was there to rescue Arthur, though. Cobb pointed out that he and Eames were going first, while Arthur should stay to escort Yusuf and Ariadne later. Eames avoided Arthur's eyes, following Saito and Cobb out of the warehouse.

He had flown privately before and Eames had never had a single reason to complain about that. Not until Saito went to the bathroom and Eames found himself alone with a Cobb who was _smiling _at him. Except it was nothing like a real smile. It was something between a cynical, cold, tired and forgotten shadow of one. As if although Cobb _did_ know how to smile, it still hurt every time he tried. Eames had never had kids and for a second he thought he could try to understand, but the truth was, he couldn't.

"How are you holding up?" Eames heard Cobb and he realized that it was the sort of question that maybe Eames should have been asking _him_.

"Fabulous," Eames replied with a smirk that wouldn't fool a toddler. "How about you?"

Cobb sunk his head against his seat. "I'll be better when it's all over."

Eames took a sip from the glass of whisky a lovely air hostess had just handed him and murmured a "Yeah, me too," but Cobb wasn't paying attention anymore.

As they landed in Sydney a few hours later, Eames and Cobb went directly to a hotel near the airport, where Saito had reserved an entire floor so their team could settle for the night. The flight to Los Angeles was scheduled at 11:15 AM and Eames knew he should be trying to get some sleep, but it was almost eleven o' clock at night and he couldn't have been more awake. He thought about practicing as Browning one last time, but without a PASIV, all he could do was stare into a mirror, mimicking gestures and expressions which didn't belong on his face. He could try one of Yusuf's minor sedatives, but with inception happening in less than twelve hours, it wouldn't exactly be wise. After he had spent the past half hour memorizing every corner of his room, Eames gave up and walked into the hall, thinking about going down to the bar, but already knowing that would be an equally stupid idea. He had had his last drink six hours ago and he shouldn't consume alcohol again until the job was done either.

Eames swore and was heading back to his room when he noticed light slipping beneath door number 653. He stopped for a few seconds and then realized that was Arthur's room. He could hear Arthur's calculated footsteps wandering over the hardwood, the noise of paper being folded with the steadiest hands. And Eames thought he shouldn't feel surprised. Arthur was a pretty good sleeper, except when he was on duty. Eames remembered how sometimes he had had to tease Arthur for hours until he couldn't work anymore so Eames could drag his arse into a bed. They rarely had sex on those occasions, because Eames knew he only could _really _make Arthur leave his desk when he was beyond tired and Arthur usually just tucked his chin into the curve of Eames' neck before falling asleep. That was one of the times Eames thought about saying the threes words aloud, because he didn't mind the sex as much he did having Arthur asleep in his arms, like Arthur did trust Eames with his life.

He was knocking on 653 before he could stop himself and the door was open before he could knock a second time. Eames eyed Arthur, fully dressed in a three-piece suit, his hair perfectly slicked back, and a Glock in his hand. Eames put down his fist.

"You aren't planning to take it with you on the plane, are you?" He tossed Arthur a mocking smile and Arthur ignored him, turning his back and walking to the nightstand. Arthur put the gun beside a red die and Eames felt the urge to ask about it, but he didn't. He stuck with the obvious, instead.

"Can't sleep, huh?" Eames pointed out, closing the door behind him.

"Rhetorical questions never really fit you," Arthur snapped in such a soft way Eames thought that it was kind of charming, too. "What are you doing here?"

"Can't sleep." Eames shrugged and confessed simply, because, why the hell not. "I saw the lights."

"Of course you did." Arthur sat on the bed, avoiding his eyes.

"I thought about practicing, you know, to kill a little time, but-" Eames trailed off.

Arthur nodded. "How much do you need? Five, ten?"

Eames couldn't think of anything he would like less than practicing Browning now that he was in the same room as Arthur, but it wasn't like he had multiple choices. He smiled at Arthur and shoved his hands inside his trouser pockets.

"Ten minutes should be enough, thank you."

Arthur nodded again and walked to a suitcase on a table, starting to sort through his things.

"Lie down," Arthur told him over his shoulder and Eames wasn't really thinking as he took off his jacket, lying on his back on Arthur's bed. Eames observed as Arthur frowned at him for a second or two, but neither of them said a thing. Arthur knelt beside the bed and hooked Eames up to the PASIV with his usual efficiency. "See you in ten."

Arthur pressed the button.

Eames' dreamscape was fashioned from the countless rooms he had been in in his life. The worn-out but comfortable furniture from two-star hotels in Seville and New Delhi, the antique dressing table from his first and only flat in London. The carpets which belonged to a pension he used to stay in whenever he was stationed in Mombasa and the curtains, well, the curtains Eames really couldn't remember. He sat in front of the three-wing mirror and saw his own face, wishing he could bring up Browning without having Arthur so clear in his mind. Arthur who was up above, just a few inches away, watching over him. Eames shook his head and scrubbed his face with both hands. When he looked up again, it was Browning's gray hair and wrinkled forehead facing him. Eames sighed, equal parts relieved and disappointed.

He spoke out aloud, using Browning's voice and tones and words. Eames said I'm sorry, Robert as he's sure Browning said to the boy when he heard Maurice Fischer was dead. He loosed the knot of his tie with one hand, then fixed it again, Browning's fingers lingering on it just for a second. Eames lost track of time as he walked around the room in Browning's shoes, feeling his weight and the shape of his body, the length, the balance of his arms and legs. Eames was sure he never had impersonated someone so well before and he was ready to check his watch and maybe shoot himself in the head, because he was beyond done, when he heard a soft knock on the door.

Eames frowned, reaching for the Beretta he knew he had in the top drawer. As he walked towards the door, he was himself again. And Eames felt surprised, but not so much, as he found Arthur in the doorway, his hair and clothes soaking wet. Eames looked out the window and, yes, it was raining. He hadn't noticed when the rain started, though. Eames glanced back at Arthur, who had been waiting for him to say something. It wasn't the first time Eames brought a projection of Arthur into a lucid dream, but it was the first time he had done that as he worked. Usually, Eames was pretty capable of separating those things.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Arthur asked and Eames noticed he had started to shiver a bit. Eames felt his heart sink, because even if it was just a projection, he couldn't bring himself to say no to something which had Arthur's face. He smiled, shook his head and stepped aside to let him in.

"What are you doing here?" Eames asked, because he wasn't really in the mood to play hide and seek with his own subconscious. "Arthur?"

Arthur, who was busy examining the room like the real Arthur did every time he walked into an unknown place, looked back at Eames with an expression which mingled a smile with a frown.

"It's raining outside," he responded softly, but Eames could distinguish a bit of sarcasm in his voice. "Do you mind if I use your shower?"

Eames found himself nodding in agreement before he could even think and Arthur disappeared from his view so quickly it was like he had vanished into thin air. And Eames thought Arthur's projection was already gone when he heard the sounds of someone stepping carefully into the shower. Eames didn't know what to do, so he sat again in front of the mirror, watching from the corner of his eye as Browning's face stared back at him from a piece of glass.

Actually, Eames suddenly realized, there were other people watching him in the mirror's pieces, which multiplied endlessly. Eames recognized Cobb, himself, Saito, Ariadne, Yusuf and a woman Eames couldn't remember seeing anywhere before, yet he thought she looked strangely familiar, like someone he once saw in yellowed photographs from old relatives. She was in her thirties and had curly, dark brown hair, with short locks. Her face had this soft and firm structure, and Eames spotted a birth mark on her forehead when she stared back at him like she couldn't recognize Eames either. Her eyes seemed sad and she frowned at Eames as if, somehow, she knew Eames wasn't real.

"_Who_ are you?" Eames heard himself asking, but before the woman could reply, Arthur was back from the bathroom.

"I see you're working." Arthur said and Eames felt his throat dry as he turned around. Arthur, Arthur's _projection_ he repeated to himself trying to focus, was wearing only an old T-shirt Eames immediately recognized as one of his own. The exact kind of coincidence the subconscious could come up with and Eames smiled, bitterly, because he didn't need his own goddamn mind to remind him he had been missing Arthur this much.

"I was-" Eames started to say, feeling his body tensing up, his hands twitching. He could smell soap on Arthur's skin and sighed, feeling defeated. "I was thinking about our first kiss." He smiled at Arthur, weakly. "Do you remember it?"

"Of course I do," Arthur replied and Eames recognized his own words in Arthur's mouth at the same time he knew he probably wouldn't have the balls to ask such a thing of the real Arthur. "You're waiting for me to wake up," Arthur's projection added with a slightly raised eyebrow and Eames held his breath as Arthur walked towards him. Eames knew he should grab his gun on the dressing table and shoot himself before it was too late.

But Arthur was already straddling Eames' lap, his eyes locked with Eames' and Eames couldn't care less if it was too fucking late anymore. He screwed his eyes shut as their lips brushed and he held Arthur's waist to keep him in place as their tongues slid together. Eames felt Arthur's skin warm and fresh from the shower and ran a hand under the shirt and over his back, making Arthur moan against his mouth and then breaking the kiss so he could capture Eames' ear between his teeth. Eames grunted and dug his fingertips into Arthur's back, crushing their bodies together. That was when he noticed Arthur wasn't wearing any underwear, his cock half-hard between his legs. Eames smirked and slipped a hand between their bodies, grabbing Arthur's cock and starting to pump him with short little jerks. Arthur bit down on Eames' ear lobe hard and Eames hissed through his teeth, increasing his strokes on Arthur's cock, making him gasp and twist his body on his lap.

"Fuck me," Arthur breathed and Eames didn't need to be told twice.

He lifted Arthur, holding him under the back of his knees, Arthur's hands around his neck, Arthur's mouth breathing against his. Eames placed Arthur on the dressing table and he glimpsed back at the faces in the mirror. None of them seemed to be bothered by Arthur's presence. Arthur, with his tousled hair and his breathing coming and going in small gasps and short moans and Eames ignored all of those faces as he opened his fly, starting to give his own cock a few strokes. Then, he saw Arthur slowly licking his fingers, before he grasped Eames' cock between them. Eames held back a grunt and dropped his head into the curve of Arthur's neck, kissing the sensitive skin. He stopped as he felt Arthur let go of his cock and he looked down at Arthur's hand, which was trying to bury two slicked fingers inside Arthur's body.

Eames breathed at it and locked his eyes with Arthur's as he slid one of his fingers along those two, feeling Arthur jolting under the hand Eames was keeping on his knee. Then Eames inserted a second finger, making it four, and Arthur gave up, taking his own fingers out so he could grab Eames' shoulder, and Eames fingered Arthur with two, then three, stretching him and kissing him with his mouth closed so Eames could feel the trembling wet lips, so he could swallow the air Arthur was trying to breathe through his dilated nostrils.

And when Eames pulled his fingers out, so he could push his cock in, Arthur opened his mouth under Eames' and let out a cry which sounded like pain, but Eames knew it wasn't. He kissed Arthur again, tilting his head and sucking Arthur's tongue in a way he knew could make Arthur moan and of course Arthur moaned back, his fingers digging into Eames' hair, deepening the kiss. Eames fucked Arthur with rough, fast thrusts, his hips snapping back and forth like Eames was so close to coming, even though he had just started. Eames panted, holding back his breath, feeling Arthur hauling him closer, _deeper_, his legs gripped hard around Eames' waist.

He grabbed Arthur's cock and stroked him as he fucked him, hard and fast, then trying to slow down just a little bit, but quickly losing himself again. Eames watched as Arthur's face twitched under his, his brown eyes just half-opened, like Arthur didn't have the wish or even the strength to close them thoroughly. Eames saw Arthur throw his head back as he came, a strangled, unconscious noise slipping from his lips and Eames couldn't help but look at all those faces staring back at them and he felt exposed and filthy because he couldn't fucking care less. Eames increased his thrusts, closing his eyes and he knew he shouldn't, _couldn't_, but for a second, for a whole second, Eames really wished he didn't have to wake up.

And when he came, tight and hot inside Arthur, Eames automatically put a hand on Arthur's chest, trying to catch Arthur's heartbeat beneath his fingers, because Eames knew _this _Arthur would fade away once he opened his eyes. And then, as he felt the familiar, unsteady thump under his palm, Eames wanted to laugh and to cry. He didn't, though. Eames skimmed a hand over Arthur's chest, instead, planning to run his fingers all the way to Arthur's face, so he could grab his chin and kiss him just one more time before the dream ended. But Eames' fingers stopped dead as he touched something hard on Arthur's collarbone. Eames gazed down at Arthur, who was also glaring at the exact place where Eames' hand had just fisted a small, slim, aluminum key hanging on a string around Arthur's neck.

They scrutinized each other. Arthur's face unreadable, Eames' mouth hanging open, millions of questions piercing through his mind, demanding an answer, _any _answer. Eames felt the shape, the weight, the coldness of the key under his fingers, a key never made for use, and he tried to say something. Eames had almost formulated all the possible words he could say when Arthur's projection grasped the Beretta on the dressing table and pressed the barrel against the underside of his chin. Eames knew what was going to happen, but he couldn't stop Arthur from pulling the trigger, burying a bullet in his skull and through the three-wing mirror behind them.

Eames shut his eyes as that broken sound echoed impossibly loud inside his head and when he looked up again, Arthur was gone. But there was no dead body, not a single drop of blood spread over the shattered mirror. And the only face gazing back at Eames, petrified in an expression of relief and disappointment, was his own.

It took Eames a few seconds to recover his senses, take the gun and put a bullet into his head.

"You're early." He heard Arthur's voice all business as always. His hair all in place, his steady hands unhooking Eames from the PASIV.

"Never thought I'd live to hear you say that to me, darling," Eames joked on purpose so he could disguise his shaking hands, pressing them against the mattress.

Arthur frowned sideways as he stood up, putting the aluminum case back on the table, his back turned to Eames, who sat on the bed and tried to read Arthur, but Arthur was acting exactly like he always did, keeping his distance, working quickly and efficiently. He didn't have anything else to say or to do, nothing that could keep him inside that room any longer. So Eames got up as well and thanked Arthur as he made his way towards the door.

Eames felt Arthur's hand on his wrist as he reached for the doorknob. He turned his head and he saw Arthur glancing at him. Eames opened his mouth, but the words failed.

"You're forgetting this," Arthur noted, his voice almost soft as he handed Eames his jacket back. "Here."

Eames smiled at him and he could have sworn he had just seen Arthur fighting to not smile back.

"Thank you, Arthur," Eames said, but Arthur had turned his face to the room, his hand keeping the door open so Eames could leave without any more excuses. And Eames was so eager to see Arthur smiling that when he finally noticed the two tiny red spots on Arthur's wrist, the door had already been shut in his face.

Eames spent most of the night trying to shove down the thoughts about those two red marks, knowing that they must be just some sort of sick and twisted wishful thinking. Because Arthur had gone under every single day of the past few weeks. Of course he would have those tiny red needle marks on his wrist. Eames knew that but even so he couldn't bring himself to stop thinking about the dream, remembering the sound of Arthur's soft moans, the shape of that key under his hand and knowing it was too good to be real.

He woke up to realize he had slept a few hours and was running late, just having the time to splash some cold water over his face, then slick his hair down and brush his teeth. Eames grabbed the jacket Arthur had handed him the previous night and headed to the airport. He tried very hard to not look at Arthur as they embarked and after he managed to steal Fischer's wallet, Eames took a magazine and kept his eyes on the page even if he couldn't perceive a single word. Endless minutes passed and he felt relieved when Cobb finally drugged Fischer and they were ready to go under for the most tricky job he had ever done. Eames risked a glance towards Arthur as he hooked himself up and he thought he saw Arthur watching him with the corner of his eyes, but it was too late and the next thing Eames was doing was shielding himself from the rain.

The first time Eames had ever gone under, he had thought about how amazing it was to feel so invincible, to be able to do the most impossible things, to push reality as far as it could get. He had all kinds of feelings during a dream, even if those were just imperfect, little versions of the real feelings he got to experience when he was wake. Yet he knew he never felt so _pissed _as when he realized how screwed up they all were. He watched Arthur shouting at Cobb and he thought they were done, _done_, but he couldn't do anything about it. Not really. Because he knew Arthur would keep following Cobb down each layer even if Cobb didn't insist.

So Eames did what he had to do. He worked faster, he gave his very best, he cracked in a hour what he was supposed to have had an entire night to do, he kept himself together and said to Arthur that he mustn't be afraid because, yes, they had to work with a little chance, they had to learn from their previous mistakes to make them right, to make it work. And Eames distracted Fischer to buy them some time and he was ready to go down and yet, Eames knew he couldn't leave Arthur alone, not the Arthur who didn't believe it could even work, but against all the odds it was Arthur who smiled down at him and Eames knew Arthur would be okay. And it was so freaking cold, and Cobb was saying if he knew the route things could be compromised and Eames hesitated, but they were there, _almost there_, but Fischer got shot and he was dead and as Eames asked what happened, not really expecting an answer, it was Ariadne who articulated the name Arthur yelled at Cobb, earlier, in the first level. A name that just down there Eames had a face to connect with. A face to blame.

A face which had a soft and firm structure. Face shaped by short and curly, dark brown locks, with a birth mark on the forehead. And Eames finally understood. Because Cobb couldn't shoot _her_ and now Cobb was the one saying they were done and they _couldn't _be done. Arthur was just up above and they were so, _so_ close, and Arthur had never believed it could even work, yet he was fighting Fischer's army for Cobb to get back to his kids. And Eames looked down at the other body, _Mal_'s body, and he remembered Cobb about that, about his family, because it was the truth, wasn't it?

It was worth trying.

And Fischer was back and they did it, they _did _it and Eames blew up the whole hospital, and he was staring up at an elevator ceiling, he was soaking wet, he was listening to Fischer talk to him and then, then, _then_-

He was awake.

Eames noticed Arthur had this little smile on his face, like Arthur just couldn't believe that it really had worked.

And the truth was Eames couldn't believe that, either.

Yet it had. They had all made it work. And Eames gave Cobb an almost imperceptible nod as he passed by, watching Cobb's face beaming, anxious. Eames exchanged subtle greetings with Saito and Yusuf, each one of them walking in opposite directions. He winked at Ariadne, who grinned back and shook her head as she walked away. Eames followed Ariadne with his eyes until she reached Arthur, gathering his things at the baggage claim. Ariadne brushed past, but she didn't stop and she looked at him briefly over her shoulder. She gave Arthur a meaningful little smile that not even Eames' years of experience would dare to translate. Eames saw Arthur twisting the corner of his lips into something that could be a smile, one day, but Ariadne didn't see anything, because she didn't look back again.

Relaxing his shoulders, Arthur turned to Eames and raised his eyebrows. Eames smiled broadly at Arthur and put a hand inside his jacket pocket. Then Eames felt a shiver piercing through his spine when his fingers touched something hard and, as he pulled an aluminum key out, Eames didn't even try to fight back a laugh. He looked at Arthur, shaking his head, thinking that this was exactly what he would have called to dreaming a little bigger. And maybe, maybe it was time for Eames to do his own talking.

"Planning to leave or are you staying in the city for the night?" he asked as Arthur walked closer.

That was when the little twist of Arthur's lips turned into a tiny smile.

"I have a place in town, you know."

And Eames smirked, because of course he did.

"Is that an invitation?"

Eames watched as Arthur's little smile grow. He thought that it could be as much a yes as it could be a friendly farewell and he didn't know what else he could say as Arthur turned to leave, looking over his shoulder.

"Well," Arthur gave him a small shrug. "You know where it is."

They took separate cabs and Eames made his driver wander around L.A. for hours before he headed to Arthur's flat. Eames didn't know if he was doing that so he could give Arthur a chance to change his mind, but when he finally stepped into Arthur's hall, night had already fallen over the city. Eames stopped outside Arthur's door and as he took the key out of his pocket, it became obvious to him he would have to knock anyway. He should have remembered Arthur' door had an automatic lock.

"Took you long enough," Arthur commented as he let Eames in. He had showered, his hair was unbrushed and he was wearing a plain white T-shirt and black sweat pants which looked so wrong and yet so right on him. "I was starting to think you'd walked away."

Eames spotted the unsaid 'again' lingering on Arthur's lips. He smiled softly at Arthur as he watched Arthur walking to the bedroom and then sitting on the mattress.

"You're right, you see," Eames started and Arthur frowned like he was saying well, of course I was, though it's pretty obvious Arthur couldn't have known what Eames was talking about. "Something happened to me."

Arthur didn't move as Eames put the key on the bed, in front of him. Then, Eames took out his poker chip and did the same. Arthur kept his eyes on the two small objects, but he didn't try to touch any of them.

"Yes, Arthur, something happened," Eames continued. "I was a coward and for that a dear friend of mine died. I was just starting in the business, and she was the one who pulled the strings. The best thief I ever knew. Smart, gorgeous hands which could fool anyone she wanted to. Then, life happened. One day, things went wrong and she got shot on a job. Turned out that I was the only one down there with her and what happened was I couldn't bring myself to put her out of her misery. When we couldn't get the job done in time, she was killed by our employer."

Eames saw Arthur's eyes grow just a little wider and nodded, once. "But I learned from that. I learned that sometimes I just need to do what I have to do. It isn't easy and we all make mistakes, Arthur. So, yes. Something happened to me, just as something happened to Cobb. But I'm not Cobb." Eames observed Arthur biting his lower lip. "Or Mal," he added with a small sigh, knowing maybe it was a little cruel and yet also knowing it was something he had to do.

"I understand you had to watch two people who loved each other reaching a terrible end. To watch people like you and me, who lived the dream, being dragged into it. And I understand you're afraid that it could happen to you, too. I understand, but you shouldn't be afraid, Arthur. I won't lose track of reality."

Arthur stared at him for an entire minute and when he finally decided to speak, Eames noticed an unmistakable tone of anxiety in Arthur's voice.

"How can you know that?"

Eames shook his head and he felt that the answer was so painfully obvious. He laughed a sad laugh as he finally let it out.

"Because," Eames breathed, "you are my reality."

And though he knew it sounded ridiculously silly, Eames also knew that it was the absolute truth.

Eames watched Arthur looking at him in silence. Then Arthur tilted his head, grabbing the key from the bed. He got up, walking towards the aluminum case on his desk. And as if he was trapped in a trance, Eames observed as Arthur inserted that same key into the lock, opening the case with a metallic noise.

"Lie down." It wasn't a request, but was not exactly an order. "I have something to show you."

And of course Eames did. When he looked up again, Eames was climbing a staircase, alone. The stairs lead to a door that indicated the sixth floor in big, capital red letters. Eames stepped into a hall he had never seen before and he walked, passing by countless doors, but he didn't stop, as if somehow Eames knew none of them were meant for him to open. Then he spotted light slipping from beneath a door just down the end of the hall. There was no number on its surface and Eames knew he didn't have to knock before he could slide himself in.

The room looked like every ordinary office Eames had seen in countless American movies; an organized desk, a brand-new computer and file cabinets lining each wall. Once he stepped closer and took a look at the labels Eames smiled, because of course Arthur's head would look exactly like that. He spotted names like Home, Mom & Dad, Brother & Sister & Baby Brother, School, College, Army, Dom & Mal, Dream-Sharing, and -

_Mr. __Eames_.

Eames shook his head and took the small key out of his jacket pocket to open his drawer. Inside there was an aluminum case and a red die. For a second, Eames thought he should try the key again, but this case had an electronic lock, with a small keyboard waiting for him to insert six digits in it. Eames frowned a little, but it didn't take him too long to figured out what he had to do. He grabbed the red die and rolled it over the desk. He did it six times and each time Eames got a different number that he entered it on the keyboard, before pressing the OK button.

Within the case was a shoebox. Filled with small, unimportant little secrets.

There was a copy of Eames' file in the military, an airplane ticket to Verona, a crumpled green handkerchief, a postcard from Chelsea, a poor shot of him made by a security camera Eames recognized from a tea house in Mombasa, a pair of chopsticks, a patient's file with the name _Tom_ in Eames' handwriting, an old piece of fabric with oil stains. And then, two last pieces: a receipt from a hotel in Saint-Petersburg in the name of one of Eames' fake IDs, and a two-year old Russian newspaper.

Frowning, Eames unfolded the paper and ran his eyes over the news, but his Russian was rusty and the only thing Eames realized after a couple of minutes was that he had been trying to read the _weather_ section.

"It says the chance of rain is over 79.5 percent."

Eames turned to face Arthur, who was leaning against the doorframe, watching him with a slightly raised eyebrow. He's wearing a three-piece suit in a dark gray tone, a tailored black shirt and a scarlet tie. His hair was slicked back, a smile playing with the corner of his lips. Arthur had a red die between his fingers and he rolled it over the palm of his hand, not bothering to look down at it. Because Arthur obviously already knew the numbers, all the odds. Arthur looked at Eames just like he had everything under control, like he had the key to convert his own destiny with a quick snap of his fingertips.

And maybe, Eames thought, feeling all the pieces finally fitting into place. Maybe Arthur did.

"You knew about the storm," Eames stated, feeling it down to his bones.

"And that you'd already checked out of your hotel, yes, I did know." Arthur shrugged a little and, as an afterthought, Eames realized Arthur looked more pleasant than smug. "I understand most people look at me and only see a guy who thinks he's never wrong. Yet, I assume you already realized that I couldn't have known you would say _yes_, then." Arthur snorted, his eyes dropping to the die in his hand. "And before you, I wouldn't have taken my chances. Before you showing up so certain of yourself, so certain of your job, of your abilities, I know I wouldn't ever have taken my chances like that. Before, I would rather have chosen the right key to the right lock."

"Then," Arthur continued. "One day I realized something had happened to you. I noticed you never looked people in the eye when you're awake. But I also noticed that you looked _at me_. I didn't know why, but I noticed you looking right at me, like you felt safe. And this-" Arthur balled his hand into a fist around the die. "_This _was far as I could deal with chance after I pushed you away. So, yes. I know most people look at me and see a guy who thinks he's never wrong, but I know when I'm wrong and I am sorry. I should have told you, before."

Eames felt something blocking his throat. Maybe the right, impossible words, maybe an incomprehensible, choking noise mingled with unsettled surprise and incredulous relief. He shook his head, incapable of thinking anything he could say in return. But yes, he did understand. Eames understood Arthur had made some mistakes and Eames had his own share, too. And that's okay, because he knew the bad things did matter as well. He knew some choices just weren't for him to make, and there were some doors he wouldn't even try to open. And maybe Eames just had to relearn how to deal with a little chance in his life as well, because the truth was unexpected things did happen. And sometimes, they were better than they could ever have hoped for. Eames glanced up at Arthur, who looked painfully anxious.

"_What_," Arthur scowled as Eames remained silent. "Are you feeling insulted or something?"

Eames couldn't help but smirk.

"Why, because you planned to get me drunk and strategically trapped inside your hotel under a bloody flood, just so you could get your hands inside my pants?" Eames' smirk faded into a genuine, soft smile. "Darling, it was probably the best way you could ever use your point man skills. I am flattered."

Then, when Arthur's shoulders visibly relaxed and he laughed, a surprisingly easy and refreshing sound, dropped his die on the floor and walked towards him, Eames thought about how things rarely did occur according to the plan, up above or down here. But as Arthur hauled him into a deep kiss, Eames thought it didn't matter, really. How it started, how it ended, once. How everything could look just like a dream, how things could seem impossible until we understood these things were worth the trouble. Eames thought that it didn't really matter _where _they were.

Not as long Arthur was planning to stay there with him.

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**Epilogue**

As the dream ended, Eames found himself still lying on Arthur's bed.

"What?" he asked as he looked at Arthur's face, just a few inches apart from his, staring at him in silence.

Arthur parted his lips with the tip of his tongue and he closed the distance between them, brushing their noses, opening his mouth over Eames', letting Eames slide their tongues together. He felt Arthur's hand cupping his cheek and Eames deepened the kiss, digging his fingers into Arthur's shirt, tugging him closer so that he could feel the steady thump of Arthur's heartbeat against his.

And when they broke apart for air, Eames lost himself in Arthur's brown eyes and he felt relief as he saw a smile mingled with a frown right before Arthur decided to tuck his chin against the curve of Eames' neck, whispering close to his ear.

"I was waiting for you to wake up."

Eames was lying on Arthur's bed when he let himself smile a soft, genuine smile.

Because, yes. Reality was so much better.

* * *

**Final notes:** I'd like to thank everyone who read/favorited this story, especially those who had reviewed it along the way to tell me their thoughts. It's been a pleasure. Thank you all! ;)


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